Falling apart
by Issai
Summary: La speranza è l'ultima a morire "Break them", was the order. It should not have been so easy. After all they were musketeers, weren't they? A sequel to Fear of Tomorrow. Warning: dark themes. I don't own any character you can recognize.
1. Chapter 1

Aramis

He was immersed in pain, but could not localize its source. It was if his whole body was on fire. Just the simple act of breathing was a challenge. Perhaps there was no reason to fight.

His mind immediately presented him with an image of a pair of hazel eyes, pleading with him to maintain eye contact. He had obviously failed that plea, as his own eyes were shut. He could not let his friend down so badly. He had no right to abandon his little brother.

Aramis struggled to open his eyes, although something inside him screamed at him not to do it. As he became more and more aware of his surroundings, he knew he would regret it.

Humiliation started to prevail over the pain. All he wanted to do was to escape in the blackness. He longed to flee from the knowledge of what they had done to him- and what they were doing to him now.

He had been drugged or poisoned-it really did not matter which. His skin was exquisitely tender to touch. He guessed that even having clothing resting against it would hurt. He had experienced being whipped before, but it had never been so painful.

His other senses were dimmed, overwhelmed by the pain. His throat was sore. Had he been screaming? He did not like the answer that his mind gave him.

 _"Break them!" That had been Allancourt's order._

He still heard it ringing in his head. The nobleman had left immediately after giving the order. Aramis assumed that his torturers had received precise instructions earlier. These three men were natural born torturers. They obviously loved their work. Their attitude caused instinctive contempt on his part. Aramis hated men who thrived on the pain of others.

Break them…

It should not have been so easy. After all they were musketeers, weren't they?

But…what did that really mean?

He was a traitor. He had betrayed his King. He had betrayed his friends.

 _"Look after d' Artagnan." Those had been Athos' instructions._

And he had certainly made a fine job of it, he thought morosely. They had both been captured. He had to admit that the ambush had been well planned. He would have fought longer if it had not been for the strange powder that had been thrown in his face. He suspected that it had been the reason that his body had betrayed him so completely. He probably was deserving of his fate. However, d'Artagnan….

He had sworn to protect the boy. He knew it was impossible to shield him completely from cruelty. After all, d'Artagnan had chosen the life of a soldier. However, the atrocities they were experiencing were very rare and very cruel, even for fighting men.

 _He had tried to help. He had done his best, although it had ultimately been for nothing. He had stared at the cooling body of his fellow musketeer, the pistol still held tightly in the man's hand as the puddle of blood spread around his head._

 _"Aramis, thank you, but I was beyond saving. I know you tried, and for that, I am grateful. Forgive me. Marcel de Vannaire." A few words written as a farewell by the man who had been too damaged to fight the next day._

He could only hope that Athos would manage to save their little brother. Aramis knew that he had to hang on until they were found by their friends. He was painfully aware that Athos and Porthos were on a long mission. They were not supposed to be back for a week or so.

If only he had been stronger! If he had been fit, Athos would not have left them behind. Their leader would never have left d'Artagnan by himself.

Aramis had tried very hard to regain his strength. He had spent most of free time training. The fatigue at the end of each day had actually been welcome, because when he was really tired, he did not dream. However, all his physical work had not been sufficient to pass Athos' inspection. What was missing? He had forgotten to fake joy. He had not laughed. He had teased Porthos only rarely. That was why Athos had decided he would be a liability during the mission. He had to admit that the older musketeer probably was right.

Aramis finally managed to lift his eyelids. D'Artagnan's eyes, full of anguish and pain, gave a small sign of relief when he met his comrade's gaze. The boy's face was covered in blood. He was biting his lips in order not to scream. However, he could not stop the helpless whimpering coming from his throat.

Aramis focused on his little brother's face. He tried to convey with his eyes all the friendship, support, and hope that he sadly could not feel in his heart.

But that was not entirely true. He should have felt no hope at all, but deep down, he still believed that his brothers would find them. He still called them brothers, although he knew their brotherhood had probably been destroyed. No! He would not accept that thought!

He knew Porthos badly wanted him to live. Would his friend change his mind once he knew what had happened? Aramis knew that Porthos logically should do so, but a part of him did not entirely agree. A part of him guessed that the big man would never give up on him, even when it would be the wisest thing to do.

Pain once more took its hold on him. His surroundings began to grow dim, and only a pair of hazel eyes remained before him.

Someone screamed desperately. The voice sounded so rough!

And then-the silent blackness.

"Aramis?" A panicked whisper reached him.

"It's alright…" he managed to say hoarsely.

The thick smoke scratched his throat.

"Don't lie to me, Aramis! We have to escape!"

The boy was right. Aramis tried to move, but found that he was shackled to the cage in which they were being held.

"Any idea how to escape?" he rasped.

"Not yet.."

Aramis tested the shackles. Nothing.

He looked around, but could not see anything useful within his reach. His clothes were lying in a heap in the same cellar. Weapons were hidden inside, but they were too far away to be of any use. It was only then that he realized he was naked. Perhaps that explained why he was so cold? His mind was not working properly. Was it because of drugs, or had he sustained one head injury too many?

"They'll find us, d'Artagnan. Have faith!"

But did he himself have any?

 ***Italian proverb – the hope is the last to die**

 **Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I am very touched by your reaction to the first chapter. You are awesome! Thank you so much! And special thanks to my marvelous Beta – Riversidewren.**

Athos

He tried to remind himself when he had last felt warmth, and failed. The wind blew fiercely through his cloak, which was now completely soaked. Fog surrounded them, and a small layer of frost was forming on Nuage's mane.

Athos was frustrated. Due to the weather, their return had already been delayed by a week. He glanced at Porthos.

The dark skinned musketeer was still angry with him for deciding that Aramis and d'Artagnan had been not fit enough for the mission. Athos knew that his decision had been entirely reasonable, as neither of the men had regained his stamina. A lengthy ride in such weather might have caused them to come down with an illness. Moreover, Aramis' low spirits would have further deteriorated with the cold summoning the horror of Savoy to his mind.

So when Tréville had left the final decision to his lieutenant, Athos had told his two brothers to stay in the garrison. As they had been declared fit for duty, they would probably be assigned to the palace guard, or would spend time training. It would be beneficial for them. At least, that was what his mind told him.

D'Artagnan had been upset, but had gotten over it. However, Athos could not forget the look of betrayal in Aramis' eyes. The problem with Aramis was that he knew that there had been many times when they had all left for a mission in worse condition than he was currently in.

However, this time, the situation was not so desperate. Yet all these factors had not altered the reality of the big man's anger. Porthos was furious with Athos for leaving Aramis behind-especially since Allancourt's case was not yet closed.

Tréville's prediction had come true. The King had not taken their accusation against Allancourt seriously. Of course, he did not actually suggest that his musketeers were lying. He did, however, promise to give the Captain a chance to talk to the Comte when he came to Paris. However, Allancourt was currently absent from the city, so even an illegal confrontation with him was impossible at this point.

The Comte seemed to be busy elsewhere. Perhaps he thought that Aramis and d'Artagnan were dead. Athos told himself again that it was quite unlikely that Allancourt would try anything at this point. It would have been stupid to for him to endanger Aramis' and d'Artagnan's health due to an irrational fear for their safety.

Nonetheless, part of Athos agreed with Porthos' wrath. He knew that he would have to spend some time making amends when they reached Paris.

After all, d'Artagnan would be questioning his place among his brothers-and Aramis... suddenly, he realized that after all they had survived in Epi-sur-Esonne, Aramis would be doing exactly the same thing.

Athos had hoped that the Spaniard would find some relief in the arms of a woman, only to remind himself that he had ordered him to keep eye on their Gascon. A few months ago, the Spaniard might have decided that while the boy was inside the garrison, he was did not need to worry about watching over him. But these days, Aramis was too worried about the boy's safety to let his guard down. Despite Porthos' best efforts, guilt was consuming their medic, and Athos started to fear what might await them in Paris. He could only hope that Tréville had found a way to keep Aramis busy and...

No, it was really not a good idea to hope that the Queen would help Aramis through his pain.

 _"Athos?" Anne's gentle voice startled him. He was sure that just a moment ago there had been only an empty corridor between himself and the exit from the palace...or to be more precise, between himself and the nearest tavern._

 _He bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty?"_  
 _"I am concerned about the health of your friends - d' Artagnan and Aramis. How are they?"_  
 _"I am grateful for your concern, Your Majesty, but there is no reason for you to be troubled. Rest is proving to be a sufficient cure."_

 _It was not a lie-they both were on the mend._  
 _"They will be delighted that you have inquired about their health."_  
 _She smiled and thanked him, then withdrew. Athos watched her leave, thinking that he really would prefer for the Queen to completely forget about Aramis._

"We should reach Paris by evening."  
Porthos' voice took him out of his reverie.  
"Good."  
"Good?!" the big man echoed, his voice incredulous. "That's all you have to say? I have been done nothing during this whole ride but dream about a hot bath-and hot food!"  
"And hot wine," said Athos wistfully, although in reality, he too was actually quite hungry.

The last few miles seemed to last an eternity. Athos could not believe it when they finally passed through the gate of the garrison.

He was disappointed that their friends were not outside waiting for them. Since they were late, their brothers should have been sitting at their usual table- or perhaps with the foul weather, watching for their arrival from the little window above the stables. Were they still upset with him? Despite all the mistakes he had made, he really did not believe so. It was more likely that they were on duty.

"Athos! Porthos! In my office! NOW!" The Captain had certainly been waiting for them. Athos glanced at Porthos, who shrugged slightly. Obviously, they had been delayed, but he hoped that the captain would not be too hard on them. After all, the message had been safely delivered, and they had not met with any trouble. Even bandits had the sense not to go out in the nasty November weather.

"Captain, we are very sorry for the delay." Athos began the speech he had rehearsed in his mind the moment Porthos closed the door to Tréville's office behind them.  
"It doesn't matter," replied Tréville, appearing distracted. "Did everything go well?"

It was obvious that other something other than their late return was troubling the Captain at the moment.  
"Yes, sir." Athos felt a sting of fear as he gave the reply.

Was their presence here connected to their brothers' absence?!

"I need to talk to you two about Aramis and d'Artagnan." Tréville's grim face confirmed his worst fears. "They disappeared three days after you left. They were on their way back to the garrison from Palace duty with Gavrin and Tumat when all four men vanished. The next day, we saw no sign of d'Artagnan and Aramis, but we did find the corpses of Gavrin and Tumat along the road. Their throats had been cut. I was suspicious that Allancourt may have been involved. As I couldn't leave Paris, I sent Etienne and a few other men to the Comte's estate. Allancourt, not surprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Our men searched the estate meticulously on the pretext of looking for a murderer on the run, but they did not find any clue that pointed to the comte's involvement in the disappearance of our men."

Porthos slammed his fist into the wall, startling Athos. Fury was radiating from the big man, and Athos was got the uneasy feeling that his brother would have preferred to smash his face instead of the wall. He gritted his teeth at the thought.

Treville continued. "I recommend that you wait here until all of the search parties are back. They are sure to return by tomorrow."  
Athos knew that the Captain was right. They were dead on their feet, and badly needed rest. However, Athos was also sure that he would not get any sleep that night.

"I want to make sure that they are not in Paris," muttered Porthos.  
The captain nodded, giving him a thoughtful look.  
"Very well, but don't go by yourself. After you return from the Court of Miracles-I assume that is where you intend to go-report to me, then remain in the garrison. There is hot food in the canteen. Now go eat!"

When they did not move, he glared at them.  
"That is an order."  
And with those words, he dismissed them.

As they left Tréville's office, Athos could not bear the fury and pain which were present in Porthos' every movement.


	3. Chapter 3

D'Artagnan

 _"Athos!" He cried out in desperation, running into the burning building. The smoke was almost suffocating him, and he felt as if he could not breathe. He came to an abrupt halt, feeling completely lost as the flames surrounded him. Every breath he took burned his lungs. He tried to focus on moving forward. If he could just touch a wall with his outstretched hand, perhaps it would give him a hint about which direction to go.  
_  
 _Hungry flames licked his skin, and he screamed in pain. He tried to avoid the fire, but he could not. Something had pinned him down._  
 _  
"Athos!" he cried once more, his voice pleading for his leader to save him.  
But he was alone.  
He was burning alive._

 _"Athos, please! Finish me… please…" he repeated his prayer over and over until the pain mercifully guided him into unconsciousness._

"Dios te salve, Reina y Madre de misericordia, vida, dulzura y esperanza nuestra..." A hoarse voice whispered close to his ear. He felt a sense of overwhelming relief. He was safe after all. Aramis had saved him. He was obviously injured, but he was getting the best care possible.

"Aramis?" His voice was tentative.

The prayer stopped.  
"Yes, d'Artagnan?" Something was very wrong. The voice was too gentle.  
"Am I dying?"  
"I don't think so. Men such as these are quite skilled at administering as much pain as they can, pushing their victims to the brink, but always keeping them alive for more. To be honest, I am not quite sure why they are acting this way."

D'Artagnan wanted to ask Aramis what he meant, as he did not quite understand...  
Wait... No!  
He did not want to understand what Aramis was implying.  
They were still prisoners.

He opened his eyes. His friend lay on the floor, still shackled to the wall. He was covered with blood, and d'Artagnan could see in the dim light of a candle that he was shivering.

"Aramis?" he whispered. He just needed to hear his friend's voice-just for a moment. The Spaniard must have understood his plea, because he began to talk. As his voice was low, it provided an even better distraction – the boy had to really concentrate to in order to understand what his friend was saying.

Aramis shared some light memories of times spent at the taverns in Paris. He talked about women. He reminded d'Artagnan of the practical jokes that he and Porthos had played on Athos. Everything he spoke of seemed so unreal-so distant. But for d'Artagnan, Aramis' voice was a lifeline-a way to escape from dark thoughts and even darker dreams.

Suddenly, he realized that the older musketeer was struggling to speak.  
"Aramis… stop! Conserve your energy...you will hurt yourself if you continue!"  
The only answer he got was a sad smile-and another story.

The Gascon was suddenly reminded of his dream in Epi-sur-Esonne.  
"Will we see the dawn?" he asked without thinking. He wanted so badly to believe that his dream was not a prophetic one.

"I don't even know what time of day it is. I don't even know how long we have been here," replied Aramis wearily. "But rest assured, I will do everything possible to free you." He fell silent as they heard approaching footsteps.

D'Artagnan saw that the Spaniard closed his eyes, feigning sleep, and the boy followed his example.  
He heard the door of the cellar being opened.  
Then the door to their cage was opened.  
His shackles were untangled from the cage.

There were only two men in the cellar. He waited for the best moment to attack them. He managed to hit one of them, then turned on the other man, trying to strangle him with his manacles. He very nearly was successful, but then he felt something slice into his skin. The bandit had somehow managed to pull out a knife.

The cut was shallow, but the musketeer suddenly felt strangely weak. His torturer easily freed himself from the boy's grasp, and d'Artagnan collapsed heavily onto the floor.

His enemy glanced at his comrade, who was struggling to his feet, then turned his attention to the fallen musketeer.

"You will be punished," he growled.  
D'Artagnan braced himself for more pain. His whole body felt very strange. The weakness was so overwhelming that he found it difficult to believe that he had been standing on his feet a moment earlier.

The bandit- it was really the correct label for his tormentor-entered the cage. He kicked Aramis, making sure that Spaniard was aware of his words.  
"Your friend has made a big mistake. He tried to escape. Do you remember what I told you both when you were first brought here? If either one of you tries to escape, the other will pay very, very dearly for such stupidity."

D'Artagnan did not remember having heard anything like that. And he saw in Aramis' eyes that the Spaniard had no such memory either.

The boy was secured to the wall outside the cage. He could only watch as the bandit raised a knife to Aramis' eyes.  
He saw panic in the marksman's face.  
He watched as Aramis tried to draw back, but the cage did not allow him to do so.  
The knife touched the sensitive skin near one of his eyes.  
The first drop of blood was spilled.

"No, don't hurt him! It's my fault! Punish me, not him!" cried the boy.  
There was no reaction from the torturer.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes.  
He heard Aramis' scream.  
He wanted to die right then.  
To be taken away from everything.  
Not to hear.  
Not to see.  
Not to know.

When he gathered up all his courage and glanced at Aramis, he saw that his friend's eyes were covered with a bloody rag, and his heart sank.

He was dimly aware that he was screaming when it was his turn for his body to be tormented, but it just did not matter anymore. He did not try to avoid the pain. He deserved it.

He regained consciousness to find himself shackled in the cage, near Aramis' bloody face. His friend was close to him, but still too far away for d'Artagnan's hand to reach out and check what was behind the cloth covering his eyes.

"Aramis…? Aramis?" His voice came out as a sob.  
"It's all right, lad. Athos will find you. It's not your fault. I… I would have done the same thing, given the chance. You had an opportunity, and you took it... it's fine. "  
"Shut up! How… how can you say it's fine?! They have blinded you!"

The Spaniard remained motionless. For a moment d'Artagnan was not sure if he was even still breathing. The boy then realized that his words had likely destroyed any bit of hope that Aramis might have had.

"It doesn't even hurt…" whispered the older musketeer, his voice distant and detached.  
"Aramis, I cannot be sure! I did not see exactly what they were doing. I couldn't…"  
"I forgive you, d'Artagnan of Lupiac. Don't let the burden of guilt destroy you. Don't let them destroy you. Tell Porthos… that I bore you no ill will…"

"No… no… no… you don't know for sure! Maybe it is not so bad! You are blindfolded! That's why you can't see anything... I'm sure of it! Aramis, you said yourself that they will be careful not to damage us too much! Aramis… please! Don't give in..don't leave me here alone! Please…"  
God, he sounded like a frightened child.  
He was a frightened child.

 **Special thanks to Riversidewren.**

 **Please don't kill me… searching nervously for a cover.**


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis

So it was here. The end.  
The end of any hope.  
The end of everything.  
His end.

But he had to be strong.  
One last time.  
For d'Artagnan.  
The boy was devastated.  
Guilt just radiated from him.  
Aramis wanted so much to take his hand in his own.  
To assure him with his touch that it was not his fault.  
He knew he would have done exactly the same thing given the chance.  
To attempt to escape was a natural reaction for any imprisoned musketeer.

A scream.  
D'Artagnan's scream.

They were torturing the boy. Again.

"Leave him! Give him a reprieve. Do you want to kill him?!"

It was a mistake. He sank into a prayer, attempting to create a shield against their insults. His intervention seemed to work, as there was no more screams from d'Artagnan.

Someone entered the cage. He felt the sting of the whip on his face, then on his arm. Why did it hurt so much when his eyes, which had also been subjected to such cruelty, did not?! It was quite strange.

He was so cold. His shivers aggravated the pain of his tormented skin. Was he going into shock? If the answer was yes, it would soon be over. He would welcome death with open arms if it were not for the boy.

"D'Artagnan?" His voice echoed in the blackness.  
He had better get used to it.  
He was now a blind marksman.  
A useless musketeer.  
He would be stripped of his commission.  
He would be a beggar in the Court of Miracles.  
No…  
He would die here.  
He wanted more than anything to not be a burden to his brothers.  
Never again.

"Aramis?" The boy's voice was so small-so afraid.  
"I am here, lad. They will find you. Have faith. "  
"Aramis… I feel weird… they forced me to drink something."  
"They've probably drugged you. It will pass. Athos will save you."  
"Aramis… how… how can you possibly think that…?! I…"  
"Hush, boy!" The Spaniard did not want to hear what d'Artagnan was going to say. "You will survive! Promise me that you will. Promise me that you won't allow them to destroy you!"  
"Aramis, I am not a naïve pup anymore… you know better than I do that I can't give you such a promise. Forgive me, brother."

Aramis wanted so badly to hug that child-his little brother.  
He needed to swear to him that everything would be fine.  
But he knew that would be nothing but a lie.

"Fight for me, lad! Fight so you can look after Porthos… He will need you."  
"No, Aramis. He needs you."  
"It is a sad fact of life that what we get is not always exactly what we need-or want."  
His body was failing him, begging him to drift off into unconsciousness, but he fought to hold on for d'Artagnan's sake.

The way the boy called out his name was chilling...it was as if he was terrified that he would not receive an answer. He hoped that God would spare d'Artagnan from spending an indefinite amount of time trapped in a cage with his decomposing body.

"Mis… cold… hurts…"  
"Try to sleep. You need strength. I will be here."  
He wished fervently that his desire would actually become a reality.  
He hoped he would survive until d'Artagnan was rescued...or at least until the boy was far enough gone as to not be aware of his surroundings.

They came for him.  
The bloody song of the whip began once more.  
The alcohol bit savagely into his fresh wounds.  
There was nothing left in him. He had no will to fight. His body was limp as they manhandled him.

 _Porthos was kneeling before the King, his eyes lowered to the ground. The shock was still visible on his face. He slowly stood up, now a King's Musketeer. A smile slowly curled on his lips as he turned to Aramis. The marksman congratulated him with a quick hug, only to find himself suddenly lifted into the air.  
"I am not a damsel! Put me down!" the Spaniard demanded. But his words disappeared, lost in Porthos' booming laugh of pure joy.  
"Let me go! I am not your favorite cat!"  
"No-but you are my favorite brother." Porthos grinned, but finally allowed Aramis stand on his own feet. The medic tried to think of a witty comeback, but was suddenly too touched to come up with_ _one._

"What have you done?! You killed him! How could you kill your brother?! You are a beast!" A voice reached him, penetrating into the dream which had given him a few merciful moments of solace.

They were taking him somewhere.

God, no! They wanted the boy to believe that he was responsible for his brother's death. He could feel the heat of d'Artagnan feverish body as they dragged him up to the boy. He brushed the his comrade's leg with his fingers, trying to give him a sign that he was still alive. He prayed it would be enough. Whatever they were planning, d'Artagnan would face that alone.

"Do not give up hope!" he whispered urgently. He was not sure if the boy had heard him, but he was secure in the knowledge that their tormentors had not.

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 **Thank you so much.**

 **And special thanks to my awesome Beta – Riversidewren.**


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan

 _"What have you done to my brother?!"_

 _Although he desperately wished to do so, D'Artagnan could not avert his eyes from Aramis' mutilated face.  
Only bloody holes were present in the spaces where those captivating brown eyes had once been._

 _"Answer me!"_

 _"He has forgiven me, Porthos…" A whisper escaped from the boy's cracked lips.  
"But I accept that it is my fault..I know I am guilty."  
Porthos' big fist suddenly stopped in the air, inches from the Gascon's head._

 _"Then I will do the same." The voice was so gentle-and so sad.  
And the shot that followed was deafening.  
Before he raised his eyes, d'Artagnan knew exactly what he would see. He had already felt a few drops of blood splash on his face._

 _"D'Artagnan?" Athos was choking on his own blood. The rain was washing away the crimson flow from his lips.  
The inn.  
The cellar.  
The darkness.  
The storm in the night._

 _His mentor's body was cooling on his lap.  
"Aramis didn't tell you that we died on our mission?" Porthos asked calmly, standing nearby.  
He had a fatal, gaping wound through his chest.  
"I know he wanted you to hang on for the rescue…but there will be no rescue, pup. I am sorry. We failed you."_  
 _"But I failed too! I couldn't save Aramis!"  
"I already told you-it's fine." The Spaniard suddenly appeared, standing near the dark skinned musketeer._

 _"You are the only one left. You must live for all of us." Athos smiled sadly. His blue eyes were serene in a way that they had never been while he was alive._

 _"One for all, and all for one," added Porthos._

 _"I so badly wanted for you to be safe. That was why I ordered you to stay in the garrison," explained_ _Athos, his face sorrowful. "Please forgive me. My plan didn't work."  
"No! Don't ask for my forgiveness! You should hate me! You should…"_

 _"Boy… you are our brother. We were your brothers." Porthos' hand stretched to touch his face but did_ _not quite reach it.  
It was translucent.  
Unreal._

No, no, no…  
He was choking.  
His face was immersed in a liquid.  
Water?  
He inhaled water.  
Someone's hand was gripping his neck tightly.  
He tried to break free.  
But the liquid darkness took him.

 _He was alone. Alone in the rainy night.  
He saw the silhouettes closing in on him._

 _Athos, his body pierced by the bullets of the firing squad.  
Porthos, with a noose around his neck.  
And Aramis.  
Aramis, whose bloodied body had the traces of d'Artagnan's hand on it.  
He recognized the imprint of his own palms on the Spaniard's throat.  
_  
 _"I killed you! Please, take your revenge on me!"  
"Boy…" There was so much warmth in the broken voice.  
"Hate me!"  
"I can't! I don't want my soul to be damned," protested Aramis, a gentle smile on his bloody lips.  
_  
 _Suddenly, he realized that Porthos had someone in his arms. The big musketeer carefully lied down his burden.  
The Gascon wanted to flee the scene. He could not bear the look of that bruised face.  
Constance!  
Her husband had killed her.  
He had killed her because of him.  
Because she had betrayed her sacred vows.  
Because she started to work in the Court.  
His Constance.  
No, she had never been his._

 _"Constance!" he howled._

 _Everyone has his breaking point, and d'Artagnan was sure he had reached his.  
"Don't give in! Have hope!"  
Aramis' last words.  
But they were so wrong.  
There was no hope.  
Just as there were no more Inseparables.  
There was no more Constance.  
His love, his family-they all had perished.  
_  
"Forgive me Athos… I was not a good apprentice…" He was not sure if he had said the words aloud.

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 **Riversidewren, thank for betaing.**


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis

He did not offer any resistance. He knew they were convinced he was unconscious. If only he could see!

Just for a moment, he felt a drops of rain on his face. He licked the moisture greedily. They wrapped him in something. A blanket? Based on its smell, he concluded that it was a horse's blanket. Then he was thrown onto the back of the horse, his head hanging down.

He felt nausea building after only a few steps. He tried to fight the sensation, but in the end, all he could do was vomit. It was so painful. He felt as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He was desperately fighting for each inhaled breath. His awkward position only made the situation worse.

Then something hard struck his head, and he passed into oblivion.

Water was falling on his face.  
"Are you lucid enough to listen, musketeer?" a voice growled.  
He did not reply.  
A slap stung his already injured cheek.  
He nodded slightly.  
"Good. You will die here. From a lack of water, I suppose."

It was then that he realized he was lying on something cold. Stone?  
There was the strange smell of a cellar that rarely had fresh air enter.

"Your friends will find you… a day too late. Yes, we want them to know that if they had only gotten here a little earlier, you could have survived. However, it really is better for them that you are going to die here. Who wants a blind marksman?" His laugh was mocking.

Aramis knew that the words should horrify him, but he felt nothing. Perhaps he was too tired.

"That poor kid was so sure that he had killed you! He has no resistance to drugs. It was hilarious!"  
"You'll die for it!" spat Aramis

"Maybe. But not from your hand! After all, you are no more threat than a broken knife. Good night!"

A strange grinding sound was heard above his head.  
Then silence.

He was alone.  
He was going to die.  
His tormentor was right.  
It was the best option.  
For him.  
For his friends.  
But he could not stop thinking about d'Artagnan.

He was alone.  
No one knew he was here.  
He wept.

He could feel moisture under his bandages. It hurt.

 _"Aramis?" Porthos was kneeling near his decomposing body.  
"Aramis?!" The cry was full of denial.  
Full of despair.  
The big man was crying like a small child over the mutilated body of his brother.  
Over Aramis' body._

 _He wanted so badly to comfort Porthos.  
_  
 _Someone was sobbing. He could not believe his eyes when he saw Athos weeping over d'Artagnan's body. He was cradling the boy in his arms, repeating his name over and over.  
"Aramis, your duty was to watch over him! You failed me! You let them torture him! You let them kill him! Who are you?! Are you plotting against me?! Have you betrayed me, just as my wife did?! She took Thomas away from me! And now you have killed my second little brother! Aramis, I thought more of you, but obviously I was mistaken!"_

"Athos…"

Blackness came for him.  
All the images in his mind were taken from him.  
He tried to remember the faces of his friends.  
He tried to remember his Queen's eyes.  
Nothing.  
Blackness.  
No sounds.  
Only a wild pounding in his head.

He was so thirsty.  
Breathing hurt his sore throat.  
He felt so miserable.  
He deserved it.  
He had not protected d'Artagnan.

He could still feel the touch of his torturers, bringing him pain and humiliation.  
He deserved it.  
He wanted so much to remember other things.  
Things other than the boy's screams of pain and the laughing of their tormentors.

He wanted to remember the prayers he knew.  
He wanted to remember all the stories which he had told d'Artagnan to give him hope.  
But there was nothing.

Maybe death had finally come.  
But if that was so, why was his body was still hurting?

If he had not been blind, he would have tried to free his hands. He would have struggled to find a way to escape. But all he could do now was to wait for the end.

 _Cold. He was so cold. Under his hands were the dead bodies of his comrades, spread across the bloody snow. He screamed in despair. He lunged forward to attack. Although he could not see, he knew exactly who he was attacking. The Duke of Savoy. Their swords met with a clash.  
He felt his blade slipping over the rapier of his enemy, plunging into his body._

 _A desperate cry._  
 _D'Artagnan!_

 _The boy was pinned to the ground by his sword.  
"You are a freak, Aramis! I knew it! I did think you would at least be able to fight, though. I was so wrong!" The hatred in Athos' voice was killing him.  
"On your knees!  
He obeyed.  
He felt his friend's blade slicing through his skin.  
_  
 _A shot.  
A cry.  
Athos' limp body fell into the snow.  
_  
 _"Aramis, you're safe," Porthos whispered. "God, I've killed Athos… I'll be hang for it. Sorry… I must leave you. You would only be a liability for me when I try to escape. I will ask Flea to take care of you. She will give you something to eat from time to time."_

 _The bells were ringing their song of grief for the Queen. She had died in childbirth, trying to bring his son into the world._

 _He was the reason that all the people he loved died.  
_  
Loneliness.

Had he heard a voice?  
A strange sound was repeated.  
Someone cursed.

They were back to torture him!  
He tried to pull away.  
He tried to escape.  
But he put himself directly into the arms of his tormentor.

Pain.  
Endless suffering.  
But his hands were not bound.  
He hit someone.  
His hand found a piece of metal.  
Scissors?  
He ran away in panic.  
Only to collapse after hitting the wall.  
A voice was saying something,  
He crept along the wall and found the farthest corner of the cellar.  
Then there was the sound of liquid being poured.  
He was so thirsty.  
But the water probably was laced with drugs.

Steps.  
Approaching steps.  
The voice.

He stretched out his hand, clutching his weapon.  
There will be no more pain!  
Maybe he will manage to finish himself off with these scissors.

He tried to be vigilant.  
Every time he heard steps near him, he was ready to attack.  
His tormentor did not attempt to approach him.  
He was waiting.  
He knew as well as Aramis did that the musketeer eventually would lose consciousness and would be defenseless.

Aramis only hoped that he would die before that happened…

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	7. Chapter 7

Athos

He followed Porthos. His friend seemed to accept his presence-or perhaps he was not really paying attention. They left the garrison and went out into the dark, wet Paris night. The lights in the windows of the taverns seemed to promise warmth and comfort.

An hour ago, Athos had thought it certain that all four of them would spend the evening gathered around a table with a few bottles of good wine. Athos had planned for the bar tab to be on him, as a sort of apology. But all of that had just been a dream. It was more than likely that the four of them would never spend an evening together again. No! Athos refused to accept that thought. Aramis and d'Artagnan had to be alive! Whatever it took, they would find them.

A dark silhouette suddenly appeared in front of Porthos. Athos put his hand on the hilt of the sword as the dark shape stopped in front of his brother.

"Flea!" whispered the dark skinned musketeer.

"I knew you would be looking for me. Aramis and d'Artagnan are no longer in Paris. We found the cart that took them from the capital. Another one was waiting outside the city limits. Then the second cart got on the main road, so it was impossible to track them any further."  
"Do you know who captured them?"  
"No, no one saw them. These men knew when to strike. Porthos… they wanted them alive. So I think it is likely that they are still alive."  
"Thank you, Flea, if you…"

She snorted in irritation.  
"If I find out anything, I'll come looking for you." She kissed him. Porthos handed her something. She gave him a sad smile, then disappeared.

Porthos' eyes were bleak when he turned his gaze towards Athos. They returned silently to the garrison. Athos was quite surprised that Porthos decided to follow him to his room, and could not figure out why.

Normally, they would sit together in order to have the comfort of a friend. However, things were strained between them. Athos sunk onto the bed, a bottle of wine in his hand.  
Porthos sighed, and took away the bottle from him.

"We need to be sober. Try to get some sleep. I hope we will know where to go tomorrow."  
Athos stared at Porthos, a bit startled by his words. However, he had no strength left for a discussion.  
Porthos took some blankets and laid down on the floor. Athos knew he was right. They needed rest.

 _D'Artagnan was curled around Aramis. Both men were still, lying on the floor of a cellar. There was a smell of death in the small room. Athos could not force himself to enter. Porthos went in without him, and fell on his knees near their friends' bodies. He gently stroked Aramis' bloody hair._

 _"Leave, Athos," he said, not looking at his comrade. "Leave me here-just like you left them behind."_  
 _"Porthos-" he choked._  
 _The dark skinned musketeer gently drew the decomposing body onto his lap, his tears spilling onto Aramis' face._  
 _"Just leave…"_

"Athos?! Damn it, wake up!" Porthos was shaking him. He awoke, gasping for air.  
"Why are you here?" he asked, not really alert.

"We will find them, and we will save them," Porthos murmured. "Athos… I am still angry with you but I DO NOT hate you. I hate the men who captured them. Are we good now? Can we work together to find them?"

Athos looked at him, amazed at how simple it was. He felt genuinely relieved that Porthos did not hate him. He had dealt with his friend's anger before, and knew he could handle that. After all, he deserved it. However, he knew he could not cope with Porthos' hatred.

They sat together, not ready to succumb to another round of nightmares.

They were standing by the gate before dawn. The search parties were returning without any leads. Their fellow musketeers avoided their eyes, conversations trailing away. They were not grieving openly-not yet-but Athos knew there was only a slim chance that they would find their brothers alive after so many days.

Two groups had still not returned. Tréville seemed to be quite anxious about them, judging by how often he was on his balcony instead of inside, taking shelter from the rain.  
Athos desperately hoped that one of the missing groups had found a lead worth tracking down.

"Athos!" A shout startled him. His eyes snapped open as a rider jumped off his horse, the poor beast swaying from exhaustion.

"Pierre?!" He was shocked to see Louise's nephew.

The boy took a moment to catch his breath. He was covered in mud, and had difficulty standing on his own feet. However, Athos did not see any blood on him.

"It's Aramis! Monsieur Aramis! I found him in the cellar of that old church-the same one he was in before!. Aunt Louise sent me to fetch you as his condition is… serious."  
"How bad is he?" Porthos' voice was shaking.  
"We are not sure… when he regained consciousness, he fought against my aunt. He would not allow anyone to come near him."  
Athos cursed under his breath. A panicked Aramis was a very dangerous Aramis. He could only hope that his friend would not hurt the people who wanted to help him. If he did, the guilt would destroy him.

"There is something else."  
Athos did not notice that Tréville had joined them. "What is it?" he asked quietly.  
"There is a bloody bandage covering his eyes," Pierre answered, his voice uneasy.

Athos felt as if he was very close to collapsing on the spot.

"Athos, Porthos-you will leave immediately!" Tréville voice was rough. "Take Nuit and Orage. You will need to change horses during your ride. In the morning, I will send Etienne with several musketeers in order to search for d'Artagnan. Bring your brothers home."  
"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

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 **Thank you, Riversidewren for everything.**


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos

"Yes… there is a bloody bandage covering his eyes." Pierre's words sank into his heart.  
He could not believe it.  
He did not want to believe it!  
If it were true, Aramis would not want to live.

No, no, no, no!  
His mind screamed desperately as they rode like madmen. The night was heavy with rain, and the wind was howling.

The horses sensed the anguish of their riders. They were nervous, but they gave every bit of their strength.

Athos pulled to a stop to change the horses. For Porthos, every second that they were not in motion seemed like an hour. He knew it was necessary for them to exchange their horses, but everything in him screamed for him to get to Aramis as soon as possible.

He had told Athos he did not hate him, and that was true. Nevertheless, rage and despair were burning into his heart with every breath.

Later on, he did not remember anything from their journey. All he had been aware of was that with each mile, breathing had become more challenging. He had felt as if there was a vise around his body, squeezing his chest more and more tightly as time went by.

When they arrived shortly before dawn, their horses were swaying with exhaustion. Normally, he would have been full of concern for the poor animals. However, at this point, the only thing he was really aware of was a profound fear for Aramis.

Louise opened the door of her house and nodded to them in greeting.  
"I am glad you arrived safely. I have been waiting for you. He is inside."  
Porthos went to rush into the house, but she caught him by the arm.

"Before you enter, listen to me first, Monsieur!" she hissed. "It is important that you know how things are."  
He stopped, and turned obediently to hear her words.  
"He has not allowed anyone to touch him. When he was left alone with some water, he drank it. He had obviously been drugged. I guess the effect hasn't entirely worn off. As I have no idea exactly what they gave him, I was afraid to give him herbs strong enough to induce sleep."  
"What about his eyes?" Porthos asked urgently.  
"When he finally allows me to remove the bandages, I will know more." She sighed. "Go to him. But leave your fury at the doorstep, for it is the last thing he needs right now."

Porthos steadied himself, then entered the little house. Two candles were burning. They only gave off a little light, but he it was enough for him to discern a person curled up in the corner in a blanket, disheveled hair covering his face. There was an empty cup in front of him. He did not react at all when Porthos cautiously approached him.

"Aramis?" He dropped to his knees.  
His brother did not show any sign of responding.  
"Aramis?" He repeated his name over and over again, hoping desperately to see some movement-hear a whispered word-anything!  
He felt lost.  
Aramis needed medical help in the worst way.  
The wounds were probably already infected.

He closed the distance between them in seconds, all the time whispering his brother's name. When Aramis was finally within reach, he took the risk of placing his hand on the floor, close to his friend's leg.

Aramis was visibly shivering. Even in the dim light, his face was deathly pale, and his breathing was fast and shallow.

All of a sudden, Porthos' eyes filled with tears, and he could no longer see clearly.  
"Aramis, please! I beg you! Aramis… I need to help you!"  
Although he did not think that his words would make any difference, he was startled to feel Aramis grasp his hand in response, long fingers encircling Porthos' wrist.

"Aramis?" he whispered.  
The Spaniard suddenly moved, collapsing against his chest. Although it was the slightest of moves, it elicited a groan from his friend's mouth.

"I've got you, my brother-I've got you," whispered Porthos. He gave Aramis a chance to pull back, but the Spaniard leaned into his embrace.

As Aramis trembled in his arms, Porthos gently stroked his hair.  
"Aramis, I need to tend to your wounds. Will you allow me to do so?"

He was not sure what would he do if his brother would not let him.  
Fortunately, he felt a small nod against his chest.  
He shifted Aramis so his comrade could rest on comfortably on his lap. It was only then that he realized that he would need water.

"Madame Louise?" he called softly.  
She came into the room immediately.

"I need hot water-and some bandages. But most of all, I need your help." His voice was desperate. As the big man really had no knowledge base as far as medical skills, Aramis had tried on several occasions to teach him some basic first aid. Unfortunately, Porthos, although he had many talents, just did not have a natural gift for healing.

Louise placed a bowl with water on the floor next to them. He felt Aramis' body stiffen.  
"I'll prepare a poultice," she murmured, allowing them some privacy as she withdrew.

The water had a familiar, comforting smell. It reminded him of one of Aramis' herbal brews.

He started to wet the bandage on Aramis' face, forcing himself to ignore the way his hands were shaking.

Aramis' breathing was even faster than before. Porthos could feel the frantic beating of his friend's heart. My own heart is pumping with the same mad rhythm as his, he thought.

He was so afraid.  
What was waiting for him under that bloody rag?  
What would they do if…?  
How would he save Aramis?  
How would he save himself?

After a long while, he decided that the rag was soaked enough to be removed with a minimum of pain. He steeled himself for what he might see. However, if he was honest with himself, he knew that he would not survive that blow if Aramis' eyes…

He gently removed the rag, and wept.

 **You'll have some answers in next chapter… I promise!**

 **Thefallen, thank you for your reviews.**

 **Riversidewren, you are really outstanding! Thank you so much.**


	9. Chapter 9

Athos

He stood watching as the doors closed behind Porthos.

"What exactly happened? Tell me all you know, Madame!" Athos' voice was hoarse from disuse. It was only then that he realized that they had been riding in complete silence.

He glanced at Louise, who was standing near him. She eyed him intently.

"Pierre saw the tracks of horses near the old church. He decided to scout the area. He soon found blood and a musketeer's pauldron, and then thoroughly searched the entire place. There were weapons hidden in the debris of the altar. Finally, he found the stone the covered the entrance to the cellar. It was too heavy to lift, so he came back for some of his friends, and together, they were able to lift the stone. Your friend tried to flee, but he lost consciousness while struggling with the boys. They brought him back here. They untied him, but did not touch his face. I tried to assess his condition when he woke up, but he crawled into a corner, and remained huddled there. The only thing I could think of was to send Pierre to find you... I tried to coax Monsieur Aramis to let us help him, but I could not reach him." Her voice trailed off.

"To be honest, I am astonished that he did not faint. Twice I thought that he was unconscious, but he was only sleeping. When I went to check on him, he awoke with a start. As I am quite sure he was drugged, I did not want to give him anything too strong." She shook her head. "Of course, I could have asked some men to hold him down, but I did not want to use force. He must have endured much abuse at the hands of his captors. I decided to wait until either you came or he passed out. I hope it was not a mistake." She absentmindedly rubbed her arm.

"Did he hurt you?" asked Athos, concern on his face.  
"It's nothing," she assured him hastily.

"Please don't tell him," Athos begged her.  
She smiled. "Don't worry-I won't upset him," she promised. "Where is Pierre?"  
"He will come with the other musketeers. Captain Treville will send a troop to help us. D'Artagnan was captured with Aramis, and he is still missing," explained Athos.

Louise paled.

"You will find him," she said comfortingly, patting his arm.

He nodded.  
He had to find the boy.  
Otherwise he would go insane.  
Although if Aramis...

He excused himself to take care of the horses. The poor beasts were so tired. He brushed and curried them meticulously, finding comfort in their warmth.

Nuit nudged him, demanding his attention. D'Artagnan usually spent quite a bit of time with her. No doubt the mare felt neglected even when she received care from the best of stable boys. He gently caressed her thick mane.

Nuage chose that moment to whicker in protest. Why was his rider caressing another horse?!

Athos sighed and left Nuit's side in order to take care of his own mount. He could not really focus on the horses, and he knew the beasts felt it. When he finished caring for them, he went back to the house.

Louise was sitting on the porch, wrapped in a woolen blanket.

"Perhaps you should go to my sister's house and get something to eat..." She stopped when she heard Porthos' voice calling her.

Athos followed her inside, and his heart froze.

Aramis was lying in Porthos' lap. He was wrapped in a blanket. There was a bandage covering his eyes. His face was bloody, as were his hands. One of them was tightly gripping Porthos' wrist as the big man gently stroked Aramis' hair.

Aramis' belongings lay on the nearby stool.  
Would he ever use his pistols again?  
Athos could not ignore that question.  
He felt sick.  
He desperately wanted to run away, but knew that his brothers needed him.

It was his fault.  
That bloody shivering body of his friend... his fault.  
He had left him to his fate.  
Athos closed his eyes.  
He tried to listen to what was happening around him, and failed.  
Was Aramis condemned to blackness?  
No!

He heard Porthos weeping, and sank on his knees, unable to breathe.

Porthos desperately cried out Aramis' name.

Athos suddenly was on his feet, moving toward his brothers.

"Calm down!" Louise scowled at them.  
"He is alive-he only fainted. I suggest you tend to his wounds instead of trying to wake him by shrieking. The wound care definitely won't be pleasant for him. I will prepare a bath, but I would be grateful if you would give me some assistance."

Athos nodded, unable to avert his gaze from Aramis' face. Porthos gently washed the blood away from his eyes, revealing various incisions around the eyes and on his eyelids. The cuts were shallow, but there seemed to be dozens of them. The entire area was severely swollen, but there were no signs of infection.

"Can he see?"  
"He passed out. I... I...don't know..." Porthos' fear was overwhelming.  
Athos could not find any words to comfort him.

Louise got the bath ready. The water smelled like some sort of soup.  
"It will help to clean the wound, as well as fight infection," she explained.

They put Aramis into the strong-smelling water. He whimpered softly.

"Hush, Mis. I'll take care of you. Don't worry. Despite the aroma of all the herbs, I am not thinking of cooking you for dinner."  
Porthos kept talking, trying to soothe his brother with his voice.

The musketeers washed away the blood and filth, finally revealing all the abuse Aramis had suffered. Their eyes met above their ailing brother. They found it hard to fathom the cruelty they were witnessing.

Usually torture victims were not treated with such surgical precision. These men had meant to inflict the greatest pain and humiliation possible without killing their victim.

"I'll kill them!" Porthos broke his monologue with a growl.

Aramis stiffened. He tried to free himself from Porthos' hands. Porthos let go of him and stepped back. Athos glanced at him, confused.

"Mis, it's Porthos. You are safe."

Aramis tried to stand up, splashing water over the edge of the tub.

"Aramis! Calm down!" Athos used his most authoritative voice.

Aramis stiffened.

"Come. I will dry you off and tend to your wounds," whispered Porthos. He lifted Aramis out of water and wrapped him up in a towel, then laid him on the bed.

"Mis... can you open your eyes for me?" he asked softly.

The Spaniard obeyed, squinting.

Athos could not breathe, waiting for a sign that his brother's vision had been preserved.

"Mis, can you see?" Porthos' voice was trembling. Athos was surprised that dark skinned musketeer merely asked the question.  
The marksman nodded.

The immense sense of relief made Athos almost lightheaded. Porthos smiled joyfully. He took the jar of salve that Louise handed him and started to smear it on Aramis' cut, burned, and bruised skin. The marksman accepted his care in silence.

Athos found Aramis' lack of response quite distressing.

"Will you stitch these cuts up? Or should I do it?" asked Louise, showing them a few longer, deeper cuts on Aramis' arms.  
"Please, Madame, go ahead." Porthos made room for her, never breaking contact with his brother.  
Athos felt so useless. He was just standing idly by while Porthos and Louise took care of Aramis.

"They must have cleaned these wounds. If they had not, they would already be infected," the herbwoman commented.  
Neither of musketeers said anything in response.

Athos needed to ask about d'Artagnan. He wanted to give Aramis some time, but he was afraid that the Spaniard would lose consciousness soon. He knew that Porthos would be angry at him for pressing the marksman, but his fear for his protégé prevailed.

"Do you know where d'Artagnan is?" he asked gently.  
Aramis shook his head, wincing.  
"Were you held together?"  
A small nod.  
"Was he in the church also?"  
God, he was an idiot. Aramis did not even know where he had been found.  
"Were you separated?"  
Another nod.

Oh God, what had they done to him? He would not even speak! Or maybe what Athos knew was enough to explain his brother's reaction. After all, he had been brutally beaten on several occasions, imprisoned more than once, and interrogated a handful of times, but he had never been tortured by specialists for two weeks straight.

"Was he alive... the last time you were together?"  
A nod.  
"Was it Allancourt who ordered your capture?"  
A nod.  
"Did he ask you any questions?"  
A cautious shake.  
"Did they torture d'Artagnan?"  
A nod.  
Aramis curled into a ball. Athos felt sick when he realized that his brother was expecting some sort of punishment from him.

"Monsieur?", Louise handed a cup to Porthos but addressed her words to Aramis. "This is water mixed with honey. I have no idea when the last time was that you ate. If you can keep it down, I will give you some broth. Drink, please."

He nodded and took the cup from Porthos' hand. He drank, his eyelids growing heavy. He was losing his fight to stay awake.

Aramis indicated his clothes with a tiny gesture of head, his gaze pleading with Porthos.  
Porthos silently helped him dress. Athos wanted to protest. Clothing scraping against injured skin must have been quite painful. However, it seemed very important for Aramis to change.

The Spaniard finally succumbed to sleep, and Porthos laid down near him.  
"We will leave tomorrow evening after we organize a search party with Etienne," said Athos quietly. However, he could not imagine Porthos agreeing to leave Aramis.

Athos respected Etienne as a musketeer and as a soldier. However, he did not like him personally. He knew that Tréville was unaware of his dislike for the man.

Porthos did not react.  
"I am guessing that they kept d'Artagnan within a day's ride," he continued.

"Are you suggesting we leave him again?" asked Porthos in a low, dangerous voice.  
"We have no choice! There is no way he can ride!" Athos felt awful. Head over heart, he reminded himself grimly.

"You might as well shoot him right now! At least you would spare him some pain!" snapped Porthos, protectively curling around his brother. "He already feels worthless!"

Athos tried to be reasonable. "Porthos, I understand your feelings, but taking him with us is out of the question. You can stay with him if you want to."

"You understand nothing! Nothing!" whispered Porthos, suddenly not furious, but incredibly sad.

Athos began to feel that his brother was right.

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing. Riversidewren, special thanks to you.**


	10. Chapter 10

Aramis

Shame.  
Hope.  
Despair.  
Duty.  
Humiliation.  
Love.  
Pain.

His emotions were suffocating him, but at the same time he felt so distant-so detached. He could not quite understand exactly what he was feeling.

He knew he had played along with his tormentors. As memories flashed through his mind, he felt both shame and relief.

He was not blind.  
He was not useless, although Athos obviously wanted to leave him here.  
He was not good enough to be allowed to search for their little brother.  
He had failed.  
He could not stand being left here! He so desperately needed his brothers.

His breathing must have changed, because Porthos murmured softly, "You're safe, Mis. Sleep. I am here."

There was only one way he could think of to make things right. Aramis made his decision, then allowed himself to fall asleep.  
When he awoke, Porthos was still sleeping, curled up next to him. The Spaniard had tears in his eyes as he left his brother behind. He felt dizzy. He looked around for Athos, but his leader was nowhere to be seen.

Aramis reached for his doublet and weapons. He was shaking badly, and he did not even want to attempt to determine if it was because of his physical condition or his emotional state. He felt incredibly ill. Every move hurt.

He was broken. The only thing which allowed him to stand the pain was his sheer determination to find d'Artagnan.

Louise's house. He was here once more. And just like last time, he was sneaking out.  
He knew where the stable was.  
He would steal someone's horse.  
He had no honor left.  
He could do something so low. It would be easy for him now.

He entered the stable and saw Orage. He realized that it was now easier to breathe. He caressed his horse's silky mane, then took hold of the saddle. It was all suddenly too much for him, and he let the tears roll down his face.

"Aramis? What are you doing?!" Athos' panicked voice reached him.  
The injured man bowed his head, burying his face in Orage's neck.  
Then he somehow found enough the strength to haul himself onto her back. He glanced at Athos.

"Leaving," he replied curtly. As he heard himself speak, he realized that his voice sounded distant. Unreal.

"Aramis!" Porthos cried, standing at the door to the stable.  
This would be harder. His heart screamed for him to stay with his brother.  
He needed him so badly.  
He could not be alone. Not now.

"Better to leave than be left behind," he whispered, too drained to say anything more.

Suddenly, he felt dead inside. He had nothing left. He welcomed the sensation.  
He knew he would soon share Marcel's fate. The only thing he wanted to do before he left this earth was to save his little brother.

"May I join you?" Porthos inquired.  
Aramis watched him in silent awe, then nodded. The relief he felt nearly made him faint, and he gripped Orage's mane tightly.

"What about me?" Athos asked. Aramis closed his eyes. He could not deny Athos. And yet he knew that Athos saw him as a liability-and he was damn right! He nodded once more.

Tired.  
Broken.  
Guilty.  
Ashamed.  
Pitiful.  
Unworthy.  
Hurting.

"I strongly recommend that you gentlemen eat something before you leave." Louise stood near Porthos, scowling at them.  
"We should wait for Etienne and his men here," replied Athos. "After all, we need to search a vast area. It would be better to do it in an organized fashion. Aramis, would you recognize the place if you saw it?"

Aramis shook his head. He dismounted Orage, and Porthos took her saddle off.

Aramis knew that he had to tell his brothers everything in order to help figure out exactly where he had been held. He went with them back to the house, and Louise brought them breakfast. Aramis stared at his bowl of thick broth, lacking any enthusiasm for food. In fact, he felt slightly nauseous. But under Porthos' watchful gaze, he took a tentative sip, then another.

"It was a cellar. Quite a big one. There was a cage in it, and no windows. The room had been carefully prepared..." His voice broke, betraying him. He was grateful for Porthos' steady hand on his arm.

It was very strange. He had been sure he would not be able to tolerate anyone's touch. But instead, he longed for Porthos' warmth. He was not afraid of his brother. He was only afraid of being rejected.

"Their clothes were dry, so they did not enter the room from the outside." He gave all the details he could remember, then his voice trailed off.

Athos was intently studying the map of the region that he had brought with him from the garrison. "Aramis... did they treat d'Artagnan the same way?"

Aramis knew exactly why he had been asked that question.  
He nodded, then watched as Athos slumped in his chair.

"There's more... they.. made him feel guilty for... my eyes... and then... they tried to convince him that his actions had directly caused my death..."  
"Jesus!" whispered Porthos.  
"Why?!" asked Athos.  
"To break us... to break you..." Aramis recounted to them the words he had heard.

 _Athos' blade was slicing into his skin. Porthos had abandoned him. D'Artagnan was dead by his hand.  
_  
"Aramis!"  
An order.  
The soldier in him answered.

He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?). He looked into Athos' blue eyes.  
Before he could even think about what he was saying, he asked, "Do you hate me?"  
Athos looked as though he had been shot in the heart.  
"What?! Aramis! I could never hate you!" he whispered, shaken to his core.  
"Thank you," replied Aramis simply. "That is what I needed to hear."

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**

 **Dear Guest, thank you for your review. Porthos desperately did not want to leave Aramis. It might have not been the case of leaving to heal. He knew they need to find d'Art… As you can see Aramis decided for them what to do.**


	11. Chapter 11

Louise

The herbwoman was amazed when Aramis actually succeeded in convincing his brothers that it would be a mistake to waste the daylight. Following them to the stable as they prepared to search for their youngest, she felt a strong need to speak with Aramis in private. However, there was clearly no time for it now.

"We will be back before dusk. If Etienne and his party arrive before we return, please ask them to wait for us," Athos told her. She gave him a simple nod in response.

Athos came over to Aramis and handed him his pistol. She did not hear what he said, but then she saw Porthos do the same thing. Porthos put his hand on top of Aramis', and Athos copied his gesture.  
"All for one", muttered Porthos, his voice quiet, but firm.  
"And one for all," replied Athos.  
"For d'Artagnan," whispered Aramis.

She could feel the tension between them begin to dissipate. After a moment, they separated. Porthos helped Aramis mount his horse, then swung up behind him. The big man gave her a brief smile, and they rode off.

After their departure, it was next to impossible for Louise to focus on her daily tasks. Her thoughts were with the musketeers, and in particular with their missing brother.

When she heard horses approaching the house, she put down a shirt she had been working on. Mending clothes was almost a daily chore for her, as her youngest son seemed to have a genuine talent for ripping up his clothes.

She went out of her house to meet Pierre, who was followed by a tall musketeer. The man had long, fair hair and grey eyes. He was perhaps slightly older than Athos.

"Etienne, of the King's Musketeers." He bowed his head graciously.  
"I am Louise. What can I do to make you comfortable, Monsieur? Your comrades should be back within the hour. You may stay at that house over there. It is currently vacant." She pointed out old Mathieu's place. The man had died last winter, and his house still stood empty.

"How is Aramis?" he asked, worry evident in his eyes.  
"He is injured, but he was able to ride with his brothers to search the neighborhood," she replied swiftly.  
He relaxed slightly, his relief apparent.

"Thank you, Madam. I must excuse myself to take care of my men and the horses."  
"Do you have any wounded? If so, perhaps I can help. I am a herbwoman," she offered.

He smiled. His smile was somewhat timid, but gentle.  
"Not yet, Madam."

He left, and she resumed the wait for her musketeers. They finally arrived as dusk settled in. When she saw an unconscious Aramis limp in Porthos' arms, she ran to them, her heart full of dread.

"What happened?!"  
Aramis opened his eyes and blinked at her sleepily. So he was not unconscious-just asleep… She was so relieved.

"I somehow think that a bed would be a better choice for sleep than the back of a horse," she commented lightly. The Spaniard accepted Athos' help in order to dismount, but he flinched slightly when his leader touched him.

Athos went to talk with Etienne, and Porthos helped Aramis lie down. Louise insisted on changing Aramis' bandages. The marksman accepted her care, but remained drowsy. The wounds were healing well, and there was no sign of infection. She smiled reassuringly at Porthos when she met his worried gaze.  
"He is healing," she said, her voice confident.

Louise realized that Porthos was as exhausted as his friend. However, she knew they both needed sustenance, and forced both of them to stay awake in order to eat. She could not hold back a smile when she saw how enthusiastically Porthos attacked his food once he finally became more alert. It seemed that just as soon as she filled his plate, the food would disappear. And somehow, while emptying his own plate, he found the time to coax Aramis into eating.

After finishing their meal, they both fell asleep before Athos returned, and Louise was grateful for the chance to speak to their leader in private.

She needed to have a conversation with Athos. She still also felt that she needed to speak to Aramis, but she knew that conversation would be much more difficult. She had no experience with addressing such matters, as she was only a simple herbwoman… However, her healer's instinct was screaming at her to talk to the marksman, and Louise knew that the right thing to do was to obey.

She stood up when Athos came in.

"Monsieur? May we talk?" she asked timidly.  
He nodded. "Of course. How is he?"

She hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. "Not any worse than he was this morning. Obviously, he is extremely tired, and riding will be very painful for him for quite some time yet. To be honest, he needs rest and good food. But I daresay that at present, his mental condition is more concerning..." Her voice trailed off. She knew exactly what she needed to say, but it was more difficult than she had anticipated.

"He needs to find d'Artagnan. He needs to do it so badly that it is more important for him at the moment then recovering from his injuries. You will have to take care of him while you are on the road. I will provide you with the salve and any other herbs you may require. I must emphasize to you that taking care of him also means… not feeling guilty." She eyed Athos worriedly, wondering if she was using the right approach.

Although his gaze remained steady, she could almost feel his emotional shields go up.

After a long moment of heavy silence, she met his eyes, and said slowly, "I am not a soldier. But from what I have surmised from observing you, Monsieur, you would never do anything to endanger your brothers."  
"Your belief in me is touching," he replied, his voice carefully neutral.  
She shrugged. "I am not being kind, I am being honest. No matter what you may think, he needs you-you, his leader-not just Monsieur Porthos."

Athos nodded, but she felt that she had not succeeded in convincing him.

"Fine. There is also one other matter. Pierre wants to help you by serving as your guide. You will need one, as it is crucial that you be the ones who find d'Artagnan. Do you realize that you are as close to d'Artagnan as Aramis is to Porthos?"

Athos seemed too astonished to answer at first, but after a moment's thought, he spoke.

"I would be grateful for Pierre's assistance, but he needs to be aware that he will put his life at risk by riding with us."  
She nodded. "I know that, and so does he. The fact is, he has his mind set on becoming a soldier."  
"A musketeer?"  
She sadly shook her head. "That is his dream, but there is little chance of that ever happening. We have no connections."  
"I could give him a recommendation, and would be willing to help him get by until he receives his commission."  
Overwhelmed, she stammered, "You are too kind."  
"Not at all, Madame. If it is within my power, I will gladly help Pierre. "

Louise was shocked. She had never intended for their talk to take such a turn.  
"Thank you, Monsieur," she whispered, her eyes full of gratitude.  
"It is my pleasure. We will leave at first light." He bowed his head slightly to her, which made her feel self-conscious.

That was the easier talk. The other one, which would be much more challenging, would have to wait for the morning.

When the next day dawned, she prepared an early breakfast for them. After they had eaten, she turned hesitantly to Aramis. "Monsieur Aramis?"

Louise felt his gaze on her, and it unnerved her. His eyes were so vacant-devoid of any light or joy. It was so unlike him that it made her uneasy.

"I think you will need to take some herbs with you. I have prepared a satchel for you already, but you may find something else useful in my stock. Come with me, and you can see what I have in stored in the attic."

She saw Athos' eyes turn to her, full of support and gratitude.

The Spaniard nodded, and followed her to the attic, where she had amassed a large supply of dried herbs.

She showed him the satchel.  
"I presume that you will need some willow bark in order for you to be able to ride. In this water skin, you will find a brew of willow bark mixed with honey. Monsieur, you know better than I do that you will need something for pain. Use the salve I have given you. It will help with the healing. I want to make sure that you have everything that you think you may need...for yourself and for Monsieur d'Artagnan."

He nodded, then chose a few more herbs.

"He was feverish when I last saw him," he whispered.  
"They did a good job in keeping your injuries from getting infected. But keep in mind that you were drugged. The boy might have reacted badly to the drug. I have no idea what it was." She looked at him quizzically.

"I have no idea either," he replied. "There was-the water... and the smoke," he murmured. His voice was still hoarse and too low for her liking.

"Does it hurt you to speak?" she asked worriedly.  
"A bit. It is mainly… just difficult."

She bit her lip, and braced herself to speak honestly to him.  
"Monsieur… I know what they did to you..but I want you to know that it had not changed the deep respect that I have for you."  
Aramis looked shocked. He shook his head, but remained silent.

"And as I already know… you can feel free to speak to me whenever you need to. I have no burden of guilt for all you have went through. We both know, Monsieur, that your brothers blame themselves…"

He closed his eyes, and she found herself staring at his pale, bruised face.  
"When you find the boy, bring him here. He will need peace to recover. I hope that your Captain will give you both permission to stay here to heal."  
"You are too generous, Madame... but you are right – the garrison would be too much for him."  
She felt in his thoughts what he did not say..."it would be too much for me."  
She snorted.  
"Do you realize that the boy will need you?" The most difficult part of their conversation was coming up now. She felt really nervous. One wrong word, and she could further damage the soul of that already seriously wounded man.

"He will have Athos," he replied dully.  
"Yes… but… you saw what happened. You know. You were there with him. And your relationship is more equal. He will not do or admit to anything happening to him that he thinks might diminish him in Athos' eyes. And you are the medic-you must tend to him."

"It's my fault that he suffered what he did!" he whispered, his voice full of despair.  
"Is he to blame for your injuries?" she asked gently.  
He violently shook his head, and his trembling hand reached out for the wall in order to steady himself.  
"So do not blame yourself for his. You will find him, and you will save him!"

He did not answer.  
She sighed.

"May I ask a favor of you, Monsieur?"  
He nodded.

"Promise me that you will return here-and that you will teach me all you know about caring for wounds. Your knowledge is too great to be lost."  
"I will try," he whispered. "You are a true healer," he added, bowing his head slightly.  
She knew instinctively that this was the greatest compliment he could have given her.

"I am honored, Monsieur." She inclined her own head and then gently patted his arm, being careful not to hurt him.  
"You will win. They did not destroy you," she said, her voice full of conviction.  
He thanked her with a small bow, but she could see that he did not believe her. She felt it as well.

 **Louise decided that she had to talk to boys and I was in no position to deny it.**

 **Dear Guest, I feel the need to answer to your review** ** _"really Porthos? your youngest is still being tortured…"_** **You're partially right. Porthos should not have been mad at Athos. But unfortunately it's not so easy as you say – leave Aramis to heal and Porthos is aware of that.**

 **Dear Guest, your remark about broken knives – brilliant! You should tell it Aramis :)**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

 **Riversidewren, thank you for everything.**


	12. Chapter 12

**As a few persons wanted to know what was happening to d'Artagnan… I felt obliged to cast some light upon his fate.**

 **My deepest thanks to you, Riversidewren.**

D'Artagnan

Why was he still alive?  
Why was he trying to open his eyes?  
Why was he hurting so badly?  
Why was any sense of personal dignity gone?  
Why?!

"Mis, why?"

But Aramis was not here.  
Aramis was probably dead by now.

Dead by his hand?  
D'Artagnan was not sure.

He remembered his delirious fight.  
But he also remembered Aramis' touch as they took him away.  
Aramis' last whispered words.  
He repeated them over and over again.  
Did he hope to summon his brother with his words?

All the things that d'Artagnan remembered... they did not fit together.  
One person cannot die in ten different ways.  
What was the truth?  
What was a hallucination?  
The Gascon boy did not know.

He knew he desperately missed his friends. If they were dead, he wanted to be dead as well. He longed to meet them, whether it was in hell or in heaven.  
Hell?  
He was in hell now.  
Devils had human faces.  
That discovery should not have been a surprise.

All he wanted was to hear the voices of his dearest friends.  
No…  
It was better that they were not here.  
Maybe there was still hope?  
Which hope?

To die in Athos' arms.  
To die surrounded by his friends.  
Not by his foes…

His body still reacted with pain to the tortures inflicted on him. He could not hold back his screams. But his mind seemed distant, as if his brain had somehow become indifferent. Perhaps there was a limit on how much humiliation a man could feel-a limit that he had just broken.

Why was he awake?  
A bloody piece of cloth was held near his face.  
It smelled of blood.  
It smelled of wine.  
And sweat.  
And powder.  
It smelled like Athos…

"ATHOS!" he cried out desperately, his heart pounding with panic.

"You are right. It was on him when he received his death blow. And you also should recognize this shirt..." His captor showed him a large crimson rag.  
D'Artagnan recognized it immediately.  
It belonged to Porthos.

"Nobody is searching for you anymore, kid. All the people who wanted to help you-they are all dead. If you had just accepted the offer we gave to you in the tavern, they would be still among living…but now you're alone, pup. That was what they called you, wasn't it? Pup?"

No! No! No!

D'Artagnan lunged towards his captor, shackles clanging as he furiously tried to reach the grinning man.

The man simply turned and left.

The young musketeer struggled against his chains. He desperately called out his brothers' names.

Relentless.  
Despairing.  
Alone.

No reason to fight.  
No reason to live.  
The last thought.  
The plea for death.  
Not to wake up once more in this empty world.

The shirt smelling of blood and Athos.  
The shirt smelling of Athos' blood.

He managed to grasp it with his hand.  
He buried his face in it.  
And cried until blackness claimed him.


	13. Chapter 13

Athos

They rode in silence. Aramis rode on Vent with Porthos, as they did not expect any trouble during the first part of the journey. The Spaniard was sleeping, held securely by Porthos. It was a worrying sight to see him so weak, but the truth was that their marksman badly needed any moment of rest he could get. At least for the time being, he was simply too exhausted to be tormented by nightmares. Thank God for small mercies, thought Athos.

They stopped to eat something-or rather, to coerce Aramis into taking a few bites of bread and cheese, as well as some sips of the brew Louise had prepared. Athos watched his friend intently. He did not like what he saw - it was like observing an empty shell of the cheeky, lively man whom he had known. It was even quite easy to coax Aramis into doing something just by reasoning with him-and Athos knew that was a really bad sign.

He was aware that Pierre was watching them curiously, although the boy lowered his eyes each time the musketeers glanced in his direction. Athos decided that in the evening, he would test the boy's skill with a sword. However, right now they needed to head out. The days were so short this time of year.

This time, Aramis mounted Orage. He checked each and every pistol that they handed to him.  
"Remember, I don't want to have you anywhere near the sword fight. Pierre, you will cover Aramis and load the pistols for him," ordered Athos.  
The boy smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Aramis did not answer.

"Aramis, did you hear what I said?" his leader asked, his voice a bit sharp.  
The marksman nodded.

Pierre led them to an old farm, which appeared to be vacant. The fields were fallow. They approached cautiously, leaving their horses some distance away. They saw hoof prints in the ground, as well ruts from the wheels of a cart.

Athos and Porthos sneaked towards the house. They did not see anyone. Athos felt a bit less nervous knowing that Aramis was watching their backs. He trusted the marksman with his life. Even now, with his friend in less than prime condition, Athos had no doubts.

They entered the house and searched it thoroughly. The rooms were quite clean, but they found subtle signs that someone had recently been there.

At last, they found the door leading to the basement. As soon as they opened it, the smell of blood and burnt flesh hit their nostrils. Porthos lit a candle to allow some light into the cellar.

A cage.  
A slender body lying in that cage.  
Athos sprang to the bars.

"D'Artagnan!" He tried to rouse the unresponsive body.  
The body had a pauldron proudly displayed on his arm.  
A quite new pauldron.  
A very well-known pauldron.

Finally, Porthos managed to open the cage. Athos dropped to his knees near the boy.

"D'Artagnan?!"  
Athos saw that his protégé's face was covered in burns. His features were unrecognizable. The body was already stiff. He could not believe it.  
He heard someone sobbing.  
Perhaps it was him?  
He cradled the corpse in his arms.  
He was whispering the boy's name over and over, but got no response.  
The little brother he held in his arms was cold and stiff.  
He had died here alone.  
Tortured.  
Alone.  
Alone.  
And that was his fault.

 **I was wondering if I should tell you that but after that chapter… you know it is not a deathfic.**

 **Riversidewren, thank you!**


	14. Chapter 14

Porthos

He tried to think.

He tried to decide what to do.

He tried…

He stood motionless, watching Athos slipping into the tidal wave of grief that threatened to drown him.

He could not bear to hear the sobs wracking the older man's body.

He felt hot tears on his cheeks.

The death of their pup would mean the end for all of them.

He felt sheer panic as he realized that he would have to be the one to face Aramis.

He would be the one who would have to break the news and watch his friend die in pain.

"Porthos? Athos?" Aramis' voice floated down to them.

"Here!" he called, trying to keep his voice steady.

Aramis was standing at the top of the stairs. Even in the darkness, Porthos could see his brother turn deathly pale.

"D'Artagnan?" he asked brokenly, stumbling down the stairs.

Porthos realized he did not have the strength to say the words out loud. Aramis swayed, and he caught him. The marksman's knees buckled, and Porthos lowered him to the ground near Athos and their Gascon.

"Mis…" he whispered.

"Take him upstairs!" ordered Aramis suddenly.

Athos protectively huddled against the boy.

"Upstairs!" repeated the Spaniard, his voice fierce.

Athos obeyed. He slowly stood up, still holding d'Artagnan against him. He went up the stairs, with a trembling Aramis following him. Porthos was at the rear of the funeral procession.

Once they reached one of the rooms on the ground floor, Athos lowered his precious burden to the floor.

"I need light and water! Now!" hissed the medic. Porthos glanced at him worriedly, but went to carry out their medic's orders. He noticed that Athos withdrew to another room, and guessed that their leader wished to grieve alone.

When Porthos dashed back with the water, Aramis was carefully inspecting the boy's hands, as if he was checking his injuries. The dark skinned musketeer felt panic building in his heart - what if his brother was going mad?!

He knew he did not have the skill to always know when a person had crossed over to death, but he was more than sure this time that it was a corpse-not a living, breathing being-lying in front of his brother.

Aramis tore off a part of the boy's shirt and used it to clean dirt and blood off the hands. He stared at them for a moment, then frantically opened the doublet and cut into the shirt. His hands were shaking. He washed away the blood, his fingers ghosting over d'Artagnan's skin.

After a while, he struggled to turn the boy onto his side, finally succeeding with Porthos' help. Aramis cleaned off his back, searching for wounds as if the boy was still alive and in need of his care.

However, Porthos felt only a rigid body under his hand. That stiffness had nothing in common with life.

Aramis lifted his head and eyed Porthos, who could barely stand the gaze of his brother.

"It's not him, Porthos!" whispered Aramis. "Look! He should have the scar from the gunshot wound here! The badly infected one… from Epi-sur-Esonne… And here! The one from the duel with the Red Guard-it's not there either! Neither is the the older one from Athos' pistol…" Aramis' fingers gently touched the boy's side. The skin under the blood was bruised, but there were no scars. "His hands… he was not trained with a sword…" The marksman's voice trailed off.

"And there's more… I do partially remember what they did to him. The marks that should be there are not."

"So? D'Artagnan is alive?!" Porthos was afraid to hope.

"I think so… because I think they wanted us to believe the boy was dead. If they had killed him, they would have just let us find his body. These burns were done after he was dead." Aramis indicated the marks on the face of the dead man.

"So this man was just another innocent victim? He died because he had a similar build to our pup?" Porthos still thought that perhaps he had misunderstood what the medic was saying.

Aramis only nodded.

"Tell Athos!" he whispered, then got to his feet and stumbled outside the house.

Porthos fought the urge to follow him and went to the room where Athos was alone. His eyes caught the sight of his leader hiding something when he entered.

A knife.

Porthos refused to think about it right now.

The big man knelt near his brother, who sat curled up in the corner of the empty room. He gently lifted Athos' chin in order to look into his eyes.

"Athos, it's not him! It's not d'Artagnan!"

It took a few seconds for Athos to focus his gaze on him.

"What?" he asked, seeming stunned.

"Aramis examined the body. He knows the scars that d'Artagnan has, and none of them were there. He is certain that it is not d'Artagnan's body."

Athos closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he seemed more aware of his surroundings.

"So, we still have hope," he said slowly.

"Yeah… but first, we have to bury that poor man. Then we need to search this whole damn house ...looking for something-anything-which can help us find our boy. We have get out of here as soon as possible-for Aramis' sake!"

They returned to the main room.

Porthos went outside to find Aramis kneeling in the mud. The Spaniard's face had a greenish tinge to it. He had just finished being violently sick. He looked miserable and was shaking.

"Athos?" he asked as Porthos helped him to stand up. The big man steadied him, as Aramis was dangerously swaying.

His leader stood in front of him. He seized Aramis' arms and looked into his eyes. Aramis tried to evade his grasp, but Athos did not let him.

"Aramis… you've saved me. Once again, you've saved me."

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	15. Chapter 15

Aramis

 _It was a bad decision to stay in that house for the night. Actually, it was the worst decision they could have made.  
It was a trap._

 _Aramis could not avert his eyes from his brother's bloody body. The hilt of the dagger was sticking out of his broad chest. The wound was likely fatal, but his medic's brain still wanted to give him a glimmer of hope-or rather, wanted to torment him with a glimmer of hope. If Porthos was to survive, he needed medical help. NOW._

 _Aramis tried to rush to his side, but was held back._

 _"How touching...you have missed us! You have missed us so much that you have returned here, to the scene of the time we spent together. It is hard to kill you, musketeer, but that is not such a bad thing. We will just have some more fun with you." His captor smiled lasciviously, then laughed._

 _Aramis tried to pull away, but he was already backed up against the wall._

 _"Let me help him, and you can do whatever you want," whispered the Spaniard, still staring at his brother._  
 _The bandit seemed to consider his offer._  
 _"You want your friend to watch us." He smiled. "What an interesting idea."_  
 _"Just let me save him…" pleaded Aramis._

 _"Go!" The man pulled the dagger out of the wound. Porthos moaned softly, and Aramis could feel his heart breaking. There was so much blood. The medic desperately tried to stem the flow, feeling as if his friend's life was slipping away between his fingers. The shade of blue on Porthos' slightly parted lips made him feel sick. But there was still a heartbeat-so faint, so tenuous. It was very wrong that the life of such a big man could be so fragile._

 _They let him stitch up the wound, and then they made sure that he kept his promise. The pistol aimed at an unconscious Porthos was their guarantee._

 _Aramis could not have hated himself more, but he could not endanger his brother's life…  
But… there was no life.  
When they finally let him go, he crawled towards Porthos.  
He searched for a sign of life.  
Any sign of life…_

 _Nothing._  
 _No!_

 _He felt hands on his arms._  
 _Porthos was dead._

 _There was no reason now for him not to attack._

 _He felt a dagger hilt under his fingers, and lunged towards his tormentor._

A shout.  
Surprise and pain.  
"Aramis!" Porthos cried.  
Am I finally dead? The thought brought immense relief.  
He opened his eyes and froze.

Athos was kneeling in front of him, both hands clutching his neck. Blood was trickling between his fingers. He looked bewildered.

"Oh God… No!" Aramis cried out desperately, lunging for his brother.  
"Porthos! My medical…," he did not have to finish the sentence, as the dark skinned musketeer immediately handed him his saddlebag.

"Aramis… I startled you, you had a nightmare. Everything is fine," whispered Athos.

The medic felt relief that his friend was still able to speak, but his words were not at all soothing. Aramis had no one to blame but himself. He pushed away his thoughts, focusing instead on the wound.

He moved Athos' hands away from the blood.  
There was a long gash.  
It was still bleeding heavily, but no artery had been damaged.  
Porthos steadied Athos as Aramis poured wine on the wound.  
The Spaniard let the medic in him take over, and he was able to sew up the wound. When he excused himself to clean his tools, it was only then that he started to shake.

His knees buckled, and he landed heavily near the wall.  
He had nearly killed Athos.  
He had nearly murdered one of his closest friends.  
He had his brother's blood literally on his hands.  
He was not only a liability.  
He was a threat.

He took his dagger out.  
It was a mortal sin to take his own life.  
But being responsible for taking his brother's life was something much worse.

He found the right spot, then braced himself for the pain.  
The pain of the fatal wound.  
The pain of condemning his soul to eternal damnation.  
The pain of leaving his brothers without ever knowing d'Artagnan's fate.

"No!" He felt someone seize his hand. He froze, not wanting to endanger his brother further by struggling with him.

"Athos… let me go! It would be best for all of us." He was surprised at how calm and steady his voice was.  
"Never!" replied his leader stubbornly. He knelt in front of Aramis, then gently cupped his friend's face in order to look into his eyes.  
Aramis lowered his gaze. He could not bear the compassion and warmth in his friend's eyes.

"I must apologize to you. It was a very bad idea to spend the night here. We have wasted too much time searching in vain." Athos sighed. "I should have been more cautious when I woke you up. Please forgive me."

"I am a threat! Please, let me go!" pleaded Aramis. He could not accept his leader's forgiveness. If not for Athos' quick reflexes, the man would have had his throat cut.

"Do you really think that we could survive your suicide?"  
"Yes."  
"Do you think that badly of us?"  
"No… I know it would be hard in the beginning but then… it would fade."  
"No doubt you are right," agreed Athos with a heavy dose of irony. "After all, I don't need much to give me a reason to drown myself in alcohol… And you know how reckless can Porthos be when you are in danger. Aramis… we are called the Inseparables for a good reason! God! If not for you, we would have just stopped searching for d'Artagnan!"

"I failed you… I let them take the boy…"  
"As far as I know, there is no way you could have prevented it." Athos brushed away a long curl from Aramis' face, and the Spaniard could not keep himself from flinching.

"You are still afraid of me," Athos observed sadly.  
"Yes… and… Athos… I am too weak to carry on… I want this to all go away. Please…"  
"I swear that I will do my best to help bring you back," Athos said solemnly. He then added dryly, "I am not sure that you would get much of a reprieve by killing yourself. After all, the Bible does say something about the penalty for such an action being hell. Am I wrong?"

Aramis closed his eyes.  
"I don't know… I have begun to think that there is no faith left in me anymore," he whispered.  
"Aramis… you really should be resting after all that has happened. I feel very guilty that I have brought you here with us, but the fact is that D'Artagnan will need a medic whom he trusts…"  
Aramis shook his head, wincing as the move triggered a headache.  
"I coerced you into taking me along."  
"No, I believe instead that you gave us a chance to join you. And for that, I am grateful."

Athos pulled Aramis into a hug.  
The Spaniard stiffened.  
He felt cornered.  
He wanted to escape.  
The fear was suffocating.  
They will…  
NO!  
There is no they!  
If it was them, he would struggle to get free.  
But he was too afraid to hurt his friend further.  
His friend.  
His brother.  
His leader.

Athos would never abuse him.  
Athos would never harm him.  
He was safe.  
He was safe in his brother's arms.

Safety.  
It was actually possible for him to be safe.  
He was shaking so badly.  
It was all too much for him.  
He could not endure more.  
But he had to.  
He had to because of his leader's trust.  
His brother's trust.

It was trust that he did not deserve.  
How could Athos accept him?  
How could he touch him without revulsion?

"It doesn't disturb you? What… they did to me?" The words spilled out before he could hold them back.  
He felt Athos sigh.

"It changes nothing between us. As far as they are concerned, I will explain to them with my sword how much their deeds do disturb me. You must tell me how to attack them in order to give them the most painful death possible."

 **I apologize for the delay. My real life is quite intense so I am afraid that my updates will be more rare. Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. Riversidewren, thank you for everything.**


	16. Chapter 16

Flea

She hated riding on a horse. After two days spent in the saddle, her body was stiff, and she was sure she was covered in bruises. However, the pain was a welcome distraction. Her heart ached with anxiety whenever she thought about the information which had been relayed to her.

She might be mistaken. It was not necessarily about d'Artagnan and Aramis. However, Tréville had stated that he did not have any other musketeers missing. It also seemed obvious to her that the name de Garrantelle meant something to the musketeers' captain. However, he was clearly not very keen to share his knowledge.

Flea was relieved that he had given her a young recruit as her escort. Not that she needed protection, but she welcomed a guide who could also care for the horse which Tréville had lent her. The captain had informed her that Jansard, her young companion, could be trusted to deliver her letter to Porthos on his own, but that idea had made her uncomfortable. She was concerned that her friend might desperately need her presence. After all, if everything she had heard was true, they had found a dying and mutilated Aramis. They would likely find d'Artagnan in a similar condition-or worse.

She knew how close Aramis was to Porthos, and she could not imagine how deeply it would affect the musketeer to see the atrocities that had been inflicted on his brother. Brothers, she corrected herself - the dark skinned musketeer was also fiercely protective of their pup. He treated him like his younger brother-or even like his son.

She tried to wrap her soaked cloak more tightly around herself. Even though she succeeded, it did not provide much warmth. Finally, they stopped at an inn. Jansard went to take care of the animals, and she ventured inside. They would only spend a few hours here. She knew she needed a longer rest, but she was too worried to manage any decent sleep. She ordered something to eat, and then took a place near the fireplace. The warmth of the flames started to make her sleepy, but she woke up when the barmaid placed some soup in front of her. Flea ate greedily. When Jansard returned, she allowed herself to doze off for a short period of time.

Before she knew it, they were on the road again. It was fully dark by the time they finally arrived at the little village.  
"Who's there?!" The voice startled her. She was angry at herself for not having detected the presence of a hidden guard.

"Jansard. I was sent by Captain Treville to deliver a message to Porthos."  
"You mean to Aramis," muttered the dark shape, shouldering his musket.  
"How is he? Aramis?" blurted out Flea.  
The guard stared at her for a moment. She started to wonder if he was assessing her beauty and comparing it to that of Aramis' lovers. If the opportunity arose, she would definitely tease Aramis about it.

"I don't know much, Madam. We all just returned this evening to discuss a plan of action, as no one found any lead to d'Artagnan. Aramis was able to ride with the other Inseparables, so I guess he's not too bad off."  
She sighed in relief. This was good news. She had feared far worse.

"I need to speak with Porthos. Where can I find him?" she asked. The musketeer pointed out one of the houses. She nodded, dismounted, and tossed the reins to Jansard. She felt slightly lightheaded.

She knocked, then opened the door. In one smooth movement, three guns were aimed in her direction.  
"Hello, Porthos," she said with a smile, taking off her hood.  
"Flea?!" Porthos swung her off her feet. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing him to surround her small frame with his strong arms. The warmth of his body awoke so many memories. She kissed him and grinned when he murmured something about the barn.

Finally, he broke the kiss. She glanced towards Aramis, expecting some kind of teasing comment from him. She winced when she saw the dead look in his eyes. The foolish young musketeer on guard obviously had no ability to discern utter defeat in someone's eyes. Nonetheless, she gave Aramis a fond smile. He nodded his head slightly in greeting.

"What are you doing here?! You hate to leave Paris, don't you?" asked Porthos.  
"I do," she agreed. "However, I promised you to find you if I had any information-and I think I know where d'Artagnan may be held."

"WHERE?" Three pair of eyes were riveted on her. She was overjoyed that the number corresponded to the amount of people in the room.

"There is an abandoned monastery that lies two days' ride to the east. It once was part of an abbey belonging to the Garantelles, but the family lost it to the Crown."

"To be fair to the Crown," broke in Athos, "Robert de Garantelle was plotting against King Louis. He was killed during an attempt to arrest him. However, a large part of his family seemed to be innocent of any wrongdoing, and the King has shown his mercy. Why would d'Artagnan be held there?"  
"I have no idea why, but even if the boy is not there, the monastery seems to be functioning as a sort of headquarters. We did not find anyone, so I suppose they will not expect us."

"We will leave at first light-all of us!" declared Athos. "I'll tell Etienne".  
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself," Porthos said easily. "Flea and I will let him know."

Fleas smiled to him, and they walked to the other house.  
"How is Aramis?" she asked.  
He sighed.  
"Bad. I mean, his wounds are healing, but… his mind - is not. As long as his thoughts are kept away from suicide, he is able to function." He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Flea- you have dealt with many women who have suffered similarly… have you any idea how to help him?"

She frowned. If she knew Aramis better, it would be easier to give advice that would be helpful.  
"Keep him busy, and emphasize how much he is needed," she said after a few moments of thought.

Porthos relayed the plan to Etienne. After that was accomplished, they had the last few hours of darkness to themselves. She was not exactly surprised when Porthos led her to the barn.  
"I missed you," he whispered, kissing her.  
"You always do," she teased him gently.  
It was good to be in his arms. It was good to be loved and admired-and it was also convenient to be with an old, cherished love. She could not just spend the night with anyone. After all, she had her dignity. Moreover, any man she linked herself to might be interpreted as a choice of a King-but Porthos had not been part of the Court for years now. The situation was ideal for them to find comfort in each other.

 **Special thanks to Riversidewren.**

 **Your reviews make my day :)**


	17. Chapter 17

Porthos

He found himself observing Flea with awe as she rode near him. Instead of turning back to Paris, she had informed him that she was going with them-and Porthos was grateful for her presence.

She was so beautiful and courageous. He wished she had agreed to be his wife. However, he understood she was born to be free rather than to be someone's wife. Despite this, he could not but help think that she would be a wonderful wife for a musketeer-for him.

She was the past, but was undeniably the most beautiful memory from his past. He still loved her. However, they both knew there was no future for them. Due to the decisions they had made, it had been fated that they would never be together. Although whenever they had an opportunity, they made passionate love, which they understood could never be more than proof of their friendship and trust. They felt safe when they were together, and for that short period of intimacy, felt a true sense of belonging to each other.

Porthos shook his head, willing his thoughts to move on, and deliberately glanced in Aramis' direction. The Spaniard had made a point of riding alone. He did not want to admit any weakness in front of the other musketeers. Porthos studied his pale face. The hat masked Aramis' eyes, but Porthos guessed they were closed. He sighed. His brother was far from healthy.

"Mis?" he called quietly, closing the distance between them.  
"Alive," came the weary reply.  
"That's good. Otherwise, I might panic." He forced his tone to sound joking.  
Aramis merely shrugged.

It was nearly midnight when they stopped at an abandoned farm which Pierre had found for them. As they did not want to attract attention, inns were out of the question.

Porthos somehow found himself near Orage, and made sure he was just enough close to steady her rider when he dismounted. The big man took care of both of their horses. He was at the same time relieved and worried by Aramis' lack of protest.

When the dark skinned musketeer came inside the farmhouse, Aramis was already asleep, curled up near the hearth. The night seemed to be promising an unusual amount of rest, as there were twelve musketeers to share guard duty. If not for the worry in his heart, Porthos would have thought it a good night.

Moreau prepared dinner. Porthos had forgotten what it was like to travel in a large party. Usually there had always been three of them, then during the last two years - four...  
Four.  
Would they ever be four again?  
Would they ever see their brotherhood whole again?  
And even if they found d'Artagnan, would the boy recover?

Porthos was horrified by their marksman's condition, and Aramis was a seasoned soldier. What damage would have been done to their young lad?

"Don't think," murmured Flea, placing her hands on his arms. She leaned towards him, and kissed the back of his neck.

After his watch, they met in an empty room, and they made love. He tried hard-so hard- to forget his worries.  
He tried...

The next day came. It would have been wiser to attack at dawn, but neither Athos nor Etienne wanted to leave d'Artagnan in the hands of his tormentors for another night.  
They spent a few hours in another abandoned house, and then left Flea, Pierre and most of the supplies there. They hoped to return with d'Artagnan.

The scouts gathered some information about the well-guarded monastery, and then the group attacked after only a short rest.

Porthos liked the plan for their group – "We enter, take what is ours, and leave."  
Etienne, along with some others, was assigned the task of creating a diversion.

It should have been simple, but they were taken by surprise by the fierce resistance that they met. Most of the bandits were quite skilled with their weapons.  
However, the musketeers were not so easy to stop.

They were inside.  
Their swords had been bloodied.

The basement.  
The smell of burns.  
The body shackled to the wall.  
The well-known body…  
No, not a body.  
D'Artagnan.

Porthos was instantly at his side, working to free him. While he was struggling to open the shackles, he became vaguely aware of Aramis' presence close to him.

Athos and two other musketeers were buying him time. The clash of their swords was relentless.

"He's alive," Aramis' voice sounded unusually loud in the cellar-but to Porthos, his words sounded like hope.

Porthos heard the click of the lock giving at exactly the same moment that he felt the bite of a dagger in his stomach. When he looked up, the man who had thrown it was already dead by Athos' hand.

However, another one was aiming his pistol at Aramis, who was trying to gently lower d'Artagnan to the floor. Without thinking about what he was doing, Porthos instinctively pulled out the knife from his abdomen and threw it in the direction of the shooter. The blade found its target, burying itself deep in the bandit's arm.

It was then that Porthos heard Aramis' cry. He glanced at him instantly. The sheer panic in the medic's eyes was not reassuring, for the big man realized that Aramis was staring at him-or rather, at his wound.  
The realization that this injury may be the cause of his death hit him hard-even harder than the enemy's blade. How would Aramis survive his death?!

But there was no time to think about that. Porthos saw that Athos had already gathered an unconscious d'Artagnan in his arms.

And then the dark skinned musketeer found himself in pure agony. He was vaguely aware that it was because of Aramis, but he had no idea what his brother was trying to do to him.  
The pain was unbearable.  
Then it lessened a bit. Aramis was kneeling at his side, hands covered in the blood of his friend.

"We have to get out," Porthos managed to croak.  
Aramis helped him get up.

Pain.  
Another step.  
Hot trickles of blood on his skin.  
A clash of swords.  
Agony coursing through his body.  
Another step.  
His knees buckling.  
Aramis shouting his name.  
So much fear in his voice.  
So much horror.

God…  
He could not die...  
He could not leave his brother...  
Not when Aramis needed him so badly.  
He had to survive.  
He had to!

The smell of mud was so close to his face.  
Athos' desperate cry.  
A splash of hot blood on his face.  
Darkness.

 **Riversidewren, thank you.**


	18. Chapter 18

Athos

Etienne should have convinced them that they were foolhardy to not wait to attack at dawn. It was his duty.

After all, he was not as close to d'Artagnan. He should have thought like a strategist, not like a panicked older brother-a brother who could only think that each hour of waiting meant one more hour of torture for d'Artagnan.  
But Etienne should…  
No – Etienne understood their compulsion to act immediately.  
So instead of insisting on a better strategy, he went along with their wishes.

Athos knew that Etienne always followed his heart and his emotions. He was actually incredibly fortunate that he was still alive. Yes, he was a lucky man. He had won in life because he had been acted with his heart - he was happily married. He had a family because he had risked… No, he had not risked - he had given up everything for the woman whom he loved.

He had given up his name, he had given up his title, he had given up his land. Athos had known Etienne when he had been the Vicecomte de Raquierre-before his father disowned him.

But there was no time now to think about the past. The former monastery came into sight. Athos engaged the bandits who were guarding the door. He was covered by Porthos, Aramis, and three other musketeers. The rest were with Etienne. He could hear shots and screams from other parts of the monastery. Aramis should have been with the others, thought Athos-his marksmanship would have been a huge help.

Instead, the Spaniard was with the rescue party, just in case they needed his medical skills to stabilize the boy at the site. Furthermore, Athos was quite sure that their medic did not trust them to assess the boy's condition… Not after last time…

Please let the boy be alive…  
Please let us save him...  
Please…  
Athos was not sure with whom was he pleading between thrusts, parries, and dodges.

When Aramis' knife finished one of his opponents, Athos thought that perhaps his friend was meant to be with their party after all.

Finally, they cleared their way down the stairs to the cellar. A strange smoky smell made the lieutenant slightly dizzy. Only after the door flew open could he could smell blood and pain-and burnt flesh.  
He fought the urge to vomit.

Not now.

Would they find another stiff body?!  
Or would they find they little brother?!  
And what if this time Aramis identified the stiff body as their little brother?

A shackled body.  
Long bloody hair covered his face.

"D'Artagnan!" yelled Athos, frustrated by the fact that he had to take care of some bandits before he could get to the boy.  
However, Porthos was able to sneak over to their brother. Aramis tried to follow him, but a man stood in his way.

"I can't believe you have come back for more fun!" Athos heard the bandit's words, followed by a derisive laugh. The man was fiercely attacking Aramis, forcing him to focus solely on defense.

"You will not touch him!" roared Athos, ducking the blade of his enemy and plunging his main gauche into the side of Aramis' opponent. He could see the relief in his brother's eyes. However, Athos' action nearly cost him dearly - he barely managed to dodge the rapier aimed at his chest. But before he could regain his stance, the bandit was dead, courtesy of Tannard. Aramis leapt towards d'Artagnan.

Athos concentrated on giving his brothers the time they needed to free their Gascon. Suddenly, he heard Aramis shouting Porthos' name. He did not like the raw panic in the medic's voice, but he could not spare a glance.  
Not now.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he was able to break away and join his brothers, leaving Tannard and Morineau to deal with the last bandits. Linnire lay huddled on the stairs, his blood slowly trickling down the steps.

Athos could not say if his comrade was still alive, but he could not waste a second at the moment to check. He dashed towards d'Artagnan, who had already been freed by Porthos. Aramis was lowering the boy gently to the ground, but his eyes, full of dread, were fixed on Porthos.

Porthos…  
He saw the blood on the big man's doublet.  
So much blood.  
He took d'Artagnan in his arms.

"Go!" cried Aramis, kneeling near Porthos. He pushed a piece of his shirt under Porthos' vest, attempting to stop the flow of blood.  
"Go! I'll stay with them!" shouted Tannard.  
Meanwhile, Morineau checked on Linnire.

So Athos left, cradling his precious burden in his arms. He was grateful that Morineau was suddenly by his side, as he could not possibly fight while carrying the boy. However, he knew that his comrade's presence meant that Linnire was dead…

Athos sighed with relief when he saw his horse exactly where he had left him. Morineau took the boy from him while he mounted Nuage. He hardly was able to bear the moments that the Gascon was not in his arms. Then the other musketeer helped him place the limp body of d'Artagnan securely in front of him.

"Go!" His comrade repeated Aramis' order.  
Why were they giving him orders?  
The only person here who was of equal rank with him was Etienne.  
However, Athos obeyed and rode towards the abandoned farm where Pierre and Flea were awaiting them. The plan was to patch up their wounded, then return to Epi-sur-Esonne as soon as they could.

Athos glanced back at the monastery's main entry. He saw Aramis and Porthos stumble outside.  
Good-they were clear.  
He rode away.

At the edge of the forest, something made him look back-and his heart froze.

Aramis was kneeling near a motionless Porthos. A bandit raised his sword, preparing to deliver a deadly blow.  
"No!" Athos was too far away to save his brother. There was no way he could get there in time. Aramis was staring into his would-be murderer's face. He could have tried to dodge the sword, but then the blade would just redirect itself to find a target in Porthos. So he remained motionless, ready to sacrifice himself for his brother.

Athos felt as if time had slowed, and he could not avert his eyes.  
Suddenly he felt a solid punch in his lower back. Only after that did he hear the shot.  
He nearly lost his hold on d'Artagnan.  
When he was able to refocus his eyes on Aramis, he could only see a splash of blood. It was strange how hazy his vision had become.

He wanted to get to Aramis, but he knew that his first priority was to save d'Artagnan. He closed his eyes for a moment, then spurred Nuage into a gallop.  
He could not find any words of prayer, but one thought was in his mind – save them-both of them.

The ride became more and more difficult. His vision was strangely narrowing, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Athos realized with dread that his hold on d'Artagnan was weakening.

The boy.  
He was so horrifying still.  
Athos tried to adjust his hold so that he could feel d'Artagnan's heartbeat. He was not sure if he could feel it anymore.

Was it raining?  
Why was the rain so hot?  
He needed something to cool him down.

Had Nuage stopped?  
He was not sure.  
Someone was talking to him.  
Someone wanted to take d'Artagnan away from him.  
NO!  
He tried to dismount with the boy in his arms.  
And he landed on his knees.

"Athos!"  
He recognized the voice.  
"We need you inside. Are you… WHERE are you wounded?" A feminine hand cupped his face.  
Flea.  
It was Flea!  
And he left his friend to die.

"Flea… forgive me…" he choked.  
"What happened to Porthos? Where are others? Are… are you… the only one who survived?!"  
Athos shook his head.  
But…  
He did not know the outcome of the battle.

"Athos?!" she cried out frantically. "Tell me what happened!"  
"I… I don't know…"

Somehow, he found the strength to get to his feet and enter the house. Surprisingly, he still held d'Artagnan in his arms. He lowered the boy onto the table, which had been made ready for medical treatment. Flea brought over a pot filled with hot water, and started to clean the boy.

The more his skin was cleansed, the more his bruises, cuts and burns became visible. D'Artagnan's body was limp and still. He did not struggle at all, despite the fact that Flea's ministrations must have been very painful for him. Athos nervously searched for a pulse. He finally found one, but it was too faint and too slow for his liking.  
"Flea, what is wrong with him?" he asked, becoming more and more frightened.  
"Aside from the fact he has been beaten, burned, whipped, and abused in just about every way possible? He is drugged," she replied. Her tone was soft and sad.

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

 **Riversidewren, thank you for everything.**


	19. Chapter 19

Aramis

Tannard fell.

Aramis was suddenly the only one supporting Porthos' weight, and was driven to his knees. The bandit who had wounded Tannard was waiting for such an opening. Aramis managed to parry the first blow, but the second sent his rapier spinning away from his hand. His opponent was too strong for the injured musketeer.

Aramis desperately positioned himself between the bandit and an unconscious Porthos. He had not have his main gauche, as he had left it buried in someone's chest during the fight inside the building-and he was in no position to reach the knife hidden in his boot.

Suddenly he recognized the bandit.  
He remembered...  
Everything in him screamed to run away.  
He knew the other man saw that fear, because a smile appeared on his face.  
"I'll try to save you for some fun later on. You're mine, musketeer," he gloated.

A stunned Aramis saw the bandit change the hold on his sword in order to hit the Spaniard with the hilt. The musketeer did not wait, and went on the attack, leaping on his enemy.

But the bandit's arm disappeared suddenly, and he fell over in a shower of bloody rain, sending both of them crashing onto Porthos.

The touch.  
The closeness.  
The fear.  
The humiliation.

Aramis nearly panicked. He wanted to roll over at once in order to break the contact.  
But he was lying on Porthos.  
He could not aggravate his friend's injuries.  
He froze.  
And then the weight of the body was taken off him.

Aramis, shocked, looked at Etienne, who was kneeling near him. His fair hair was crimson.  
"Can you stand?" the lieutenant asked urgently.

Aramis nodded. Etienne stood, and extended his hand to help him up.

 _The garrison yard. Etienne extended his hand towards Aramis, who was sprawled on the ground. He had knocked out the marksman with a furious blow._

 _"Never speak that way to my wife again!" he growled._  
 _"I didn't know she was your wife," mumbled Aramis, licking the blood from his split lip._  
 _"I know," replied Etienne with an easy smile. "So, do you want to just lay there all day?"_  
 _Aramis accepted his help._

This time it was different.  
Etienne had just saved his life.  
Aramis grabbed the offered hand. He was grateful that Etienne steadied him when a wave of dizziness tried to overwhelm him.

The Spaniard whistled to Orage, and his mare ran towards him. He silently thanked their Gascon, who had taught their horses all their tricks.

"Help me put him on the horse." Aramis' eyes did not leave Porthos for a second.

Etienne glanced at him. He was kneeling near Tannard, his ungloved hand on the man's neck.  
"He lives," he whispered in relief.

Aramis nodded slightly. A few musketeers were fighting near them. He and Etienne struggled to put Porthos on Orage. The horse stood peacefully, with only her ears betraying her excitement. She shivered slightly when she finally felt the weight of both men on her back.

Aramis huddled against Porthos. He already could feel the blood seeping from his ripped stitches. Dealing with an unconscious Porthos was a challenge for him even when he was in his best condition.

He rode off, and the others musketeers joined him. The medic scanned their group with increasing horror. Five of musketeers were seriously injured-or worse. The others were conscious and fit enough to ride, but the Spaniard was quite sure that none of them had escaped unscathed.

Their retreat left traces of blood along their path. They were in luck that it was raining. Perhaps that would make their trail more difficult to trace. Etienne led his horse into a stream. The others did the same in order to cover their tracks.

We are running away on our own land, thought Aramis bitterly.  
He tried so hard not to wonder how grievous Porthos' wound was. He felt the man's pulse under his fingers. It was frighteningly fast and faint.  
He could not lose Porthos.  
He could not.

They rode in silence, the heavy rain soaking through their cloaks. Aramis licked thirstily the drops of water that found their way to his lips. He felt nauseous, and there was a long night ahead. He hoped that God would show His mercy upon them.  
Upon Porthos.

Finally, they reached the farm. Flea rushed through the open door to greet them. Her gaze instantly found Porthos, and her eyes widened in fear. She ran towards them, ignoring the splashes of mud on her clothes.

"Is...?" she could not finish her sentence, her eyes pleading and bright in the light of the torch that she held.  
"He is alive," he answered quietly. He waited for two musketeers to take Porthos before he dismounted.  
When they entered the house, Aramis saw Athos lying on a bed roll, and d'Artagnan lying on the table.  
"How is he?" he asked, afraid to hear the answer.  
"He is stable. I haven't finished patching him up yet, but I suppose you will need that table to operate."

He nodded, and started to prepare his kit.  
"What's wrong with Athos?" he asked with concern.

Please tell me he is alive…  
Please…

"He took a bullet in the back. I... haven't tried to pull it out. I just bandaged him," Flea replied, biting her lower lip.

"I'll take care of it," he whispered. He hated his voice for sounding so small and fragile- even to him. He realized with dread that the only other medic among his comrades, Calbert, lay unconscious.

All he wanted to do was to help Porthos, but he forced himself to switch, in medic mode and first went to assess the wounded that were lying on the floor.  
Linnire and Tourne were dead, and Narenne was fatally wounded. Aramis closed his eyes, and bowed his head in defeat.

"Etienne?"  
"Yes?"  
"Make him comfortable. I can do nothing for him. I am sorry…"  
Etienne squeezed his arm briefly.  
"Help Porthos and others," he ordered gently.

Aramis quickly give instructions to Morineau and Damair on how to care for Calbert and Tannard, as they could wait a little before being stitched. Porthos could not.

The Spaniard prayed as he pulled off Porthos' jacket and cut open his shirt. The wound was still bleeding heavily, and looked quite serious. It needed to be cauterized as soon as possible. Aramis ordered Etienne and Pierre to hold Porthos down. He put the knife in the fire, then forced himself to become detached when he pressed the red hot blade to the wound. A jolt of pain reached the brain of the unconscious man. However, his scream quickly changed into a low, keening moan.

Aramis fought against the nausea. He heated the blade once more, and repeated the whole procedure, ignoring the tears falling down his face. This time Porthos did not react. The medic nervously checked for a pulse, his fingers leaving traces of blood on his brother's neck.

He whispered a prayer thanksgiving when he found proof that his friend was still with him. He put some salve on the wound and bandaged it.

For a moment, he was not sure if he had managed to remain standing as he watched his comrades lay his wounded brother on a pallet.  
He could not faint.  
Not yet.

Aramis cleaned his tools while Etienne and Pierre readied Athos for him. He hoped his hands would not shake too much. He found himself gazing at his unconscious brothers.

He needed them so badly.  
He needed to hear their voices.  
He needed to see their eyes open.  
He needed to feel them squeezing his arm reassuringly.  
They were lying so still.  
Their lives depended on him.  
On a broken musketeer.

He evened his breathing, and inspected Athos' wound. The bullet must have been shot from a great distance, as he could feel it directly under the skin. He thanked God for this mercy, and made an incision. Athos began to struggle against the pain, but Etienne held him down. Aramis triumphantly pulled out the bullet, then poured alcohol on the wound. Athos groaned, trying to twist away from the liquid burning his body. The Spaniard did his best to clean the wound. He thought it a bad sign that Athos was already quite warm.

Tannard…  
Aramis cleaned and stitched his wound – a long gash on his chest.  
The medic felt Etienne's gaze on his face, and looked up to meet it.  
"He shall live," he said softly. He wanted so much to be able to say the same about his brothers!

There was not much he could do for Calbert, who had received a blow to his head. There was a big bump. He stitched the split skin, and put a poultice on it. He hoped that Calbert would soon regain consciousness, as he was not sure how long much longer he would be able to stay on his feet.

"I'll send Pierre in the morning to fetch Louise," he heard Etienne declare. It was not a question-it was a statement. However, Aramis nodded gratefully.

Flea was still busy taking care of d'Artagnan, and he went to help her. They worked in silence. Aramis found that having his eyes open was becoming more and more demanding, and Flea must have seen it.

"Go to sleep. I'll finish with him. He is not bleeding out. I'll wake you when I need your help."  
He just collapsed near the boy.

 **Please, read and review. Riversidewren, thank you!**


	20. Chapter 20

**For Riversidewren with my deep gratitude.**

Athos

 _He was back on the battlefield. He ran towards his brothers. Aramis was lying on top of Porthos, partially covering him. Blood was trickling from his mouth. Athos fell on his knees near him._  
 _"Aramis!" he cried. The Spaniard opened his eyes._  
 _"It is fine…" he whispered. "Everything is fine… take care of the boy…"_  
 _"I left you.."_  
 _"You did what you had to do… We were here to save the boy, not to survive."_

 _"Porthos…?"_  
 _"A stomach wound… he was bleeding for hours… but now, he does not suffer… Athos!" A bloody hand grasped his own. "Promise me… you'll save the boy… for Porthos…"_

 _Aramis tried to add something, but a coughing fit overwhelmed him. He brought up more and more blood as he desperately tried to inhale, his hand frantically squeezing Athos'._

 _"Breathe with me!" Athos cried out frantically, propping Aramis up a bit in order to ease his breathing. However, he knew that Aramis was drowning in his own blood. There was nothing he could do. Finally, the Spaniard collapsed in his arms._

 _"Take care of the boy…." He guessed the words from the movement of Aramis' silent lips against his neck._

 _Take care of the boy… Aramis' last words. His plea._

 _He had failed._

 _D'Artagnan's body hung from the tree, the wind gently rocking it. Because Athos had had no idea how to help him, the boy had killed himself._

 _"I will find peace, Athos. Forgive me. I was too weak to carry on."_  
 _The farewell letter._  
 _He took his protégé's body in his arms, the rope rough under his fingers._

 _"I see that he was better at the hanging business than you." The voice was sad._  
 _He knew who he would see when he looked up._

 _Milady was wearing the same white dress that she had worn on the day when he had condemned her to death. Forget-me-nots were in her hair._

 _The last time he had seen her she had been furious. Now she was only sad._

 _"It seems you are quite unlucky with younger brothers… Pity… I liked him…"_

 _"Go away!"_  
 _"Why?" She took in her hands the rope that formed the noose around d'Artagnan's neck, "Do you really want to be left alone with his cooling body? Would you have huddled with my body in your arms after you had killed me? Would you have whispered your goodbyes to the woman you loved and… your child?"_

 _"What are you talking about?!"_  
 _"Don't be so stupid! After all, sometimes a man's wife does become pregnant... but usually you don't hang her then…"_  
 _"You… why didn't you tell me?!"_  
 _"You wanted to kill me! I tried to tell you that Thomas attacked me! But you did not want to listen to me. The fact that I was with child would not have changed anything. I doubt you would have even believed me! And even if you had…. would you have liked raising the child of a murderer?"_  
 _"What… happened to…your… our child?"_  
 _"Believe or not, hanging is not conducive to pregnancy. I lost the child. I lost everything that day… As you did– today…"_

 _So I did, he agreed._  
 _Aramis and Porthos died to save d'Artagnan… And he had failed. Once again._  
 _He closed his eyes, burying his face in the boy's arm._

 _Only then he did he heard the cry._  
 _Constance._  
 _Eyes open wide, she stared at the scene, her lips trembling._  
 _"D'Artagnan?!"_  
 _"He is dead," he answered._  
 _He is dead._  
 _Those three words pierced his heart._  
 _No amount of wine would soothe the pain._  
 _"NOOOO!"_

"Hush… Hush… you're safe. Everything will be fine."

 _No, nothing would ever be fine again._  
 _You died, Aramis!_  
 _Don't try to calm me down._  
 _You were captured because of me…_  
 _You were tortured because of me…_  
 _You died… because of me…_  
 _You should not have…_

 _"I am dead. You're alive. Don't tell me what I should or should not do! I am not following your orders anymore."_  
 _"You never did."_

 _Aramis smiled sadly._  
 _Black holes were in place of his eyes._  
 _Athos screamed._  
 _The crows were feasting upon Aramis' body. They had already eaten his eyes._  
 _No, it was not Aramis!_  
 _A long white dress._  
 _A crow pecking a green, vacant eye._  
 _The flowers held in a still white hand._  
 _Drops of blood dried like tears on her face._

 _"I loved you, Athos!"_

 _The fire was consuming his house._  
 _He was engulfed by it._  
 _Her hand on his face._  
 _Her blade on his throat._

 _"Do it! Kill me! I deserve it!"_

 _"You have killed your child… live with that knowledge."_

 _Tréville's office._  
 _"You have disappointed me, Athos. How could you let your brothers die?!"_

 _Aramis knelt in front of the bandit, his head bowed in defeat. His fingers were entwined with Porthos'._  
 _Like his were with d'Artagnan's fingers._  
 _Before the boy's fingers had stiffened too much to hold them that way._

 _D'Artagnan struggled in the shackles as his tormentors fulfilled their desires. The boy caught Athos' gaze. His eyes were so vacant. So distant._

 _"Athos!"_  
 _"Athos… forgive me… forgive me..."_  
 _Each burn on d'Artagnan's skin was his fault._  
 _Each cut._  
 _Each bruise…_

 _"You have destroyed the Inseparables." Tréville's cold words rang in his head._  
 _"Congratulations, Athos! You played along quite nicely!" Allancourt stood near the King, smiling at him._

 _He had failed…_  
 _He had failed Thomas._  
 _He had failed Anne._  
 _He had failed his brothers._

 _"The first time we met… you should have let me die, Aramis."_

 _"Athos… why are you trying to quietly bleed to death?"_  
 _"Should I do it out loud? My apologies, but I am too tired."_  
 _"You are supposed to ask me to stitch you up!"_  
 _"Sorry, I forgot- but it's not that bad."_  
 _"I suppose I can agree... after all, it is not a mortal wound."_

 _"Aramis, just let me go…"_

"NEVER!"


	21. Chapter 21

Flea

She did not know how many hours she spent dressing d'Artagnan's wounds. When she finished, daylight was slipping in through the dirty windows. She glanced around the room at the other wounded men.

One musketeer, whose name she did not know, was holding a limp Narenne tightly in his arms. The man must have died, and she had not noticed. She felt guilty. She had promised Aramis she would keep the vigil, and she had not even realized that someone had died...

Her tired eyes glanced towards Etienne. The musketeer was busy stitching the long slash on his side.

"It would be easier to ask someone for help," she said casually as she approached him.  
"Whom should I ask? Those dead-or wounded-men?"  
She glanced towards the musketeer grieving Narenne.  
"He needs time," said Etienne softly.  
"I'll stitch you up," she replied, her tone firm.  
He agreed.

She finished, then withdrew to her place near Porthos.  
She gently touched his face. His skin was clammy and cold. It scared her, but she did not want to wake Aramis. The medic really not look much better than his wounded brother.

She checked on Athos and cursed under her breath. The musketeer was burning up. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of cold water and placed it gently on his forehead.

The musketeers on guard duty changed, and she saw the worry on their faces as they stared at their fallen comrades.

"Madam?" Jansard came over to her with some bread and cheese. She was not hungry, but accepted the food with a small nod. She had learnt from experience that when food was available, it should be eaten, regardless of the status of her appetite.

A growl. She extended a hand to gently touch Porthos' face, and froze. The sound he made had been barely audible to her, but not to Aramis. The musketeer stirred, and reflexively aimed his pistol towards the door. Only then he did he open his eyes. It would have been funny if the situation had not been so dire.

Aramis put down the weapon.  
"Porthos?" he asked softly, gently touching his friend's cheek. The big man leaned into his touch.  
"Mis?" he mumbled.  
"Yes, I am here. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Flea observed Aramis with awe. It seemed as if Aramis' only focus was his wounded brother. There was worry in his eyes, and a gentleness that that was born of deep love.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked softly.

"Bad… sick."

Somehow, Aramis managed to get a bucket in place just in time. He held Porthos securely while he vomited. Flea did not hear the words he whispered, but she saw the fear in his face. Then the medic relaxed slightly.  
"No blood," he said with relief.

"Mis…"  
The ordeal had left Porthos nearly breathless.  
"Rest… you'll be fine."  
"Don't lie to me..."

Flea stared at Aramis, holding her breath as she waited for his answer. Would she lose Porthos? Would she have to return to Paris without him? She should not be so scared. However, she could not imagine her world without the security of knowing that Porthos was alive. Somewhere. Somewhere among the living.

"You have a chance," the medic replied, gently stroking Porthos' hair.  
"Don't agree… I… don't feel well…"  
"I know. I will prepare something for the pain."  
"Mis… I need you to promise me that you will go on living if I die."  
"Without you, I would have no reason to live."  
Aramis' broken voice would shatter the hardest heart.  
Porthos closed his eyes. Flea thought he had fallen asleep, but suddenly she heard his voice.  
"If I live, will you, Mis?" he asked. Somehow, there was more strength in his tone...and Flea could swear she saw a mischievous glint in his dull eyes.

"Yes," replied the medic quickly. Too quickly, thought Flea. But due to the shape he was in, there was no way that Porthos would realize that.  
She was wrong.  
"Mis, promise me!" demanded the wounded musketeer.  
Aramis looked directly into his brother's eyes.  
"I promise," he whispered.

Porthos visibly relaxed.  
"Good," he murmured, and fell asleep.

She could have been a part of the life of this extraordinary man. She could almost taste the affection and care that he offered so freely to his brothers… and knew that she could have had such a bond to this man. However, she had rejected it. And for the first time in her life, she was not sure if her decision had been the right one.

Aramis gently untangled himself from his brother in order to check on Athos. He cursed when he realized how hot his leader was. He checked the wound, and was dismayed to see that it already showed signs of infection. He treated it with a vast amount of alcohol. Athos tried to withdraw from the pain, and mumbled something, his words incoherent.

Aramis did his best to soothe him. "You're safe. Hush… you're safe. We're safe."

It worked-for a few minutes.  
Athos started to toss, and Aramis tried to hold him down. He leaned towards him, whispering soft, reassuring words. It gave the wounded man some temporary relief, but soon he was once again caught up in his feverish nightmare.

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

 **Special thanks to Riversidewren.**

 **I had some problems with ff notification. So if I omitted any review or PM message I could reply, please give me a sign.**


	22. Chapter 22

Aramis

He sat between the bed rolls where his wounded brothers lay. He had finally managed to find a position which allowed him to have each of his friends within hand's reach. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could lean on to give his exhausted body support. He closed his eyes. Every part of his body hurt. He knew that the throbbing sensation he felt in his arm was not a good sign.

He vaguely remembered that he had probably ripped his stitches. There was no way he could redo them by himself-and the thought of asking any man besides his brothers for help made him feel more nauseous then he already was. Obviously, there was Flea, but the woman was asleep, curled up at Porthos' side. She had done a great job patching up d'Artagnan, and he did not want to wake her.

Aramis wet a cloth in the bowl of cold water, then placed it on Athos' forehead. His fever was still rising. The medic checked on the wound, and found to his dismay that it was festering badly. He was shocked that it had reached that level of infection so quickly. Perhaps Athos had been run-down... simply more exhausted after his last mission that he wanted to admit. But this also meant that Porthos' condition might take a turn for the worse, for he was hardly in better shape.

Stop it! You will only panic, and that won't help anyone! Aramis scowled to himself and started to undo Athos' stitches. The wound had to be drained.

He looked around the room, searching for someone to hold Athos. He could not risk the man injuring himself further by struggling to escape the pain that Aramis would inevitably inflict on him. Then Etienne entered the house, and his quizzical glance met Aramis' eyes.

"Hold him down."  
Aramis realized too late that he should have spoken his words in the form of a request, not an order. However, when he was treating wounded men, even the Captain took directions from him, never reproaching him for his attitude towards his superiors while he was in medic mode.

The Captain…  
Would there still be a place for him in the regiment?  
Even if the answer was yes, should he perhaps resign his commission?

"Aramis?" Etienne's voice was full of worry.  
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I am just tired-nothing more."  
A glint in Etienne's silver eyes told Aramis that the lieutenant did not believe him, but he remained silent, and started to clean the wound. Athos tried to recoil from the pain, but Etienne did not let him.

"Aramis… forgive me… please!" Athos' voice was a pained whisper.  
"Athos, I have to work on your wound. It will hurt, but it has to be done."

His leader opened his eyes, and Aramis moved into his line of sight.  
"I left you…"  
"You did what you had to do," the marksman replied calmly. "We were there to save d'Artagnan."  
"NO!" Athos' voice was barely above a whisper, but Aramis knew it was meant to be a desperate cry.  
"No… Aramis… I'm so sorry…"  
"Athos, what for?"  
Aramis was no longer sure that his friend was still lucid. Athos' eyes were bright with fever and unshed tears. The medic suddenly realized that Etienne had retreated to the other side of the room in order to give them some privacy.

"You are dying… and it is my fault!"  
"Athos, as the medic here, I can assure you – I am not dying. I was not injured during the fight."  
"I saw you… your lungs were pierced…"  
"No, Athos. It was only a nightmare. If my lungs had been pierced, we would definitely not be having this very cheerful conversation right now."

Aramis knew that the simple denials or platitudes did not work on a feverish or drunk Athos. He had unfortunately had many opportunities to learn the finer points of how to handle his friend in such situations.

"I must finish with your wound. It would really be better for you to pass out-and I need Etienne's help for that."

"I do not deserve for things to be made better for me."

Aramis sighed. He motioned for Etienne, and continued to clean the wound. Athos' breathing became more and more labored as he fought against the pain. His hand found Aramis' leg, and the medic tried to ready himself for the pain that would inevitably follow. Somehow, he kept his hands from shaking when Athos squeezed his fingers on his bruised, burned skin.

A wave of pain flashed through the medic, and black spots danced before his eyes. Then the pain receded, and Aramis saw that Etienne was holding Athos' hand.

The Spaniard once more focused on the wound, and after some deliberation, decided to leave it open. He put a poultice on it, then nodded to Etienne, relieving him from his position. The man left to check on the others.

"Athos?" Aramis stared at his friend, his concern growing. Athos' face was covered with sweat, and his breathing was too rapid and shallow for Aramis' liking.

"Easy… it's over," he said soothingly, gently stroking Athos' hair. Athos leaned into him. The fact that he sought the comfort of his friend's touch spoke volumes about his condition.

"You should have left me, you know?" muttered his leader.  
Aramis had had this sort of conversation with Athos so many times that he had no idea which situation his leader was referring to.

"The order was to deliver the message. You should have gone with Porthos... and not come back for me… "

"Athos… I thought that I have made clear to you my attitude about orders like that. As I remember, you previously punished me for disobedience which actually saved your life. For three months, your horse was brushed and fed better than all the others. I might even say that he was in far better form than you."

"I failed, 'Mis… D'Artagnan is dead…"  
"No, Athos! He is alive! He is drugged. He has not regained consciousness yet, but he is alive."  
"They raped him… I saw it."

Aramis could not breathe for a moment.  
"No. You did not see it, Athos. He was alone when we found him."  
As memories of his tormentors rushed into his brain, Aramis felt more and more detached.  
No… I was the one who saw it… Please… Athos… do not ask me how he reacted... Please, I beg you..do not ask me for any details... Please… Aramis pleaded silently.

"Will you forgive me, Aramis?"  
"Yes...of course." Aramis had no idea what Athos was talking about. However, he could not imagine anything Athos might have done that he would be unable to forgive.

He changed the cold cloth on his friend's forehead.

"Will you take care of the boy?"  
"I am taking care of all of you," he replied gently.  
"Porthos' death...is my fault…"

In one desperate motion, Aramis bent over Porthos, and put his ear to the man's burly chest. He closed his eyes with relief when he heard the steady beat of his heart.

"No, Athos. Porthos is alive. But when you feel better, I am going to tell you just how many grey hairs you have given me... and it will cost you dearly in wine." Aramis hated how fragile his voice sounded.

Athos seemed to doze off.

The medic changed the poultice once more, then returned to his place on the floor.

"Is she pregnant?" mumbled Athos.  
"WHO?!" Aramis was really shocked by that question, especially coming from Athos.  
"Anne..."  
Aramis tried desperately to determine of whom his brother was speaking. The Queen? No, Athos would not call her by her first name. Was he thinking about his ex-wife?

"Athos, even if the answer is yes, I have nothing to do with it," he assured him hastily. He had not slept with any woman called Anne recently. In fact, he deliberately avoided women with that name.

"Save her! Save my child…"  
"Athos… if you can give me some details, I will do my best."

Aramis was not sure that Athos was speaking about the present.

"Save…" whispered Athos, "...save them from me… save yourself from me… "  
Finally, it seemed as if the elder musketeer had succumbed to sleep.

So Aramis was startled when he heard his brother's voice once again, now firm and official.

"I'm sorry, Captain… please… sentence me to death… allow me that one mercy."

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing. Riversidewren, thank you for everything.**


	23. Chapter 23

Porthos

He was hovering at the edge of consciousness. He knew that the darkness would grant him some relief from the pain which consumed his abdomen, but he needed to know how his brothers fared. He felt Flea's body curled up close to him, her breath on his bare skin. He fought against the sudden need to stroke her hair. She was tired.

He opened his eyes, and saw Aramis sleeping in an awkward position, partially curled up next to Athos. His leader's face was flushed with fever.

"Porthos?" Flea moved into his line of vision. She smiled sadly at him. "Do you want some water?"

God, he wanted water so badly!  
He was incredibly thirsty, but he knew that he would likely not be able to keep anything down. He might have risked the pain of vomiting, but he was sure that the noise would wake Aramis-and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

The Spaniard looked so ill. Dark bruises contrasted with his deathly pale face. Porthos could not bear the thought that he was unable to care for his friend. He was pretty sure that Aramis had not used any of the salve to treat his own injuries. They should have watched him to make sure he had taken care of himself, but they had not had a chance since they had left Epi-sur-Esonne.

"Did he eat anything?" he whispered to Flea. She shook her head.  
"Since we arrived here, he has been busy. And when he did get a spare moment, he was falling asleep."  
"He usually doesn't eat till we are all out of danger," muttered Porthos.  
"You and Athos went above and beyond," sighed Flea. "I told you to keep Aramis busy, but… you should not have given him reason to worry. "  
"Athos?"  
"He was shot. The wound got infected."  
"D'Artagnan?"

Flea wanted to give him an answer, but there was a soft whimper. Aramis immediately woke up and leaned towards the boy.  
"D'Artagnan? You're safe." The soft whisper came to their ears.  
"Mis…?"  
Porthos could not resist smiling when he heard his little brother's voice. But the next words made his heart sink.

"You're a dream…" their Gascon said in a small voice. "I know you are… I've seen you already… Please stay until I die…"  
"You're not dying!"  
"I… wish it wouldn't take so long. I… please forgive me… Mis… After all that happened, there is just no way that I can go on… just… no way…"  
"D'Artagnan… you're safe... you're free! You'll find the strength. You're not alone!" Aramis soft words broke Porthos' heart.  
"No… I am not worthy… Mis… I'm sorry to tell you, but...we are not worthy…"  
"NO!" Porthos roared. He was vaguely aware that he had woken up everyone in the house. The pain was overwhelming.

D'Artagnan curled up into a ball. He was shivering badly.  
Aramis pulled him into a hug, and directed a grim look at Porthos.  
"Don't try to get up."  
Porthos could feel blood trickling on his skin, but he could not allow his brothers to sink into despair.  
"Aramis, D'Artagnan… you are my brothers. And you will be…"  
"You died because of me!" protested the boy.

Porthos closed his eyes. He felt really miserable, and he knew that his end might be close. Even Aramis had not tried to give him false hope.

"No. I died because of…"  
Porthos realized his mistake when Aramis gasped.  
"Sorry! I am alive, d'Artagnan!" Porthos corrected himself.

God…  
Nausea was taking a strong hold on him.  
He could not fight it more.  
Then there was a flare of hot pain.  
Everything for a moment went dark.

"Porthos… breathe! I beg you… breathe!" Aramis' voice was full of fear. Porthos was lying in his arms. The pain slowly subsided, but it left him totally drained. He was so cold, and Aramis' skin seemed to be warm-maybe even too warm. That worried him. He knew he should ask about it, but he just could not find any strength. So he lay still, and tried to use Aramis' touch as an anchor. It started to work.

"Why aren't you praying? He surprised himself by asking the question.  
"I'm...not worthy anymore," replied Aramis softly.  
"But… if…?"  
"I won't." The Spaniard leaned to brush his friend's forehead with his lips. "You won't leave me, brother."  
"I'll try not to," murmured Porthos.

"Raiders!" A musketeer raised the alarm.  
Porthos felt someone put a pistol into his hand.  
"Flea, stay here!" ordered Aramis.  
"No, you'll need me to reload your guns. I am going with you."

Aramis patted Porthos' shoulder quickly, and they ran outside. Porthos stared at the closed door. He saw that Tannard had also been given weapons. The man seemed to be in far better condition than he himself was.

"Give me the pistol!" pleaded d'Artagnan. "I need to be certain that they won't take me again! I want to die… a free man," whispered the boy.  
Porthos gently stroked his hair, listening to the sound of shooting outside.  
"They won't. I am here. I won't let anyone harm you," whispered Porthos. He aimed his weapon at the door, and waited-praying that he would not lose consciousness.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren**


	24. Chapter 24

Aramis

Etienne's plan was too optimistic, thought Aramis-especially because it was based on his marksmanship. A few weeks ago, he would have relished the challenge. But now… he only felt the heavy burden of responsibility.

He took aim.  
A shot.  
A body falling from the horse.  
He dropped the gun, trusting that Flea would reload it so he could fire once again.  
One bullet-one man down for the count.  
He relaxed- or rather went into automatic sharpshooter mode. All of his concentration was focused on his enemies. There were too many of them in comparison with the effective range of his weapon, even when it was fired by his expert hand.

He realized that a few raiders were trying to enter the house from other angle. He was sure the other musketeers saw them, but as they were engaged in a fierce fight, they could not react. He abandoned the modest cover the tree trunk gave him and ran towards the bandits. He knew Flea was just behind him, and he tried to shield her as best he could.

A shot.  
He dropped the pistol.  
Another gun in his hand.  
Another shot.  
Pain.  
He was driven to his knees.  
But his hand did not waver.  
Another shot.  
Another fallen raider.

He got up, leaning on Flea for support.  
No, he could not lean on her! He needed her to reload his pistols. She was saying something to him, but his eyes were searching the battlefield, and he did not pay attention. He exhaled slowly, then took aim at one of Morineau's four opponents, and pulled the trigger.  
Morineau snapped his head in his direction and gave him a small salute with his rapier before plunging it into the chest of his enemy.  
Aramis fired once more.

And suddenly, the fight was over. Now he could heavily lean on Flea.  
"You're injured! Porthos will kill me!" she exclaimed, her eyes full of fear.  
"Just a scratch," he mumbled. "Tell Etienne I am going to check on our wounded."  
She nodded.

He felt slightly lightheaded. The fight had left him with a strange kind of excitement. Actually, he felt better than he had before it-almost as good as before he was captured.

He called out to his brothers before he entered the house. Despite his cautious warning, he was confronted with three guns aimed in his direction.  
"We won!" he announced, then his eyes went wide with dread when he saw the blood on Porthos' bandage. He leapt towards him, his own injuries completely forgotten. Quickly rinsing his hands with wine, he nervously checked his brother's wound. Porthos had torn open the previously cauterized wound, and it was still bleeding. Aramis did not want to subject his friend to that dreadful process one more time, so he merely put pressure on it, then bandaged it.

"It is bad, isn't it?" asked Porthos, his voice hoarse.  
"You are really quite gifted at ripping stitches." he whispered.  
"Mis…" Porthos' eyes focused on him. "You're wounded!"  
"It's just a scratch."  
"Have you checked it?"  
"Not yet."

Aramis lifted his head and froze. D'Artagnan was lying with a pistol in his hand, looking into the barrel with a fascination that was very disturbing.

"D'Artagnan!"  
"Mis… " he whispered, "I… give me a reason… a reason I can believe in. You were there with me…you know. It is easy for the ghosts of Athos and Porthos to accept us, as what happened to us...it's only words for them. But I cannot see you without seeing what… they did to you… it is so clear, so vivid…"  
Aramis closed his eyes, fighting the urge to curl up and use Porthos as a shield against the Gascon's words. He felt his friend's hand on his leg.

"D'Artagnan, they are alive! Both of them! They are wounded, but very much alive."

"Beware of ghosts… they can set your home on fire," muttered Athos.

"Nice of you to join us," murmured Aramis as he checked on his fever. Athos' temperature was clearly higher than the last time he had checked. He changed the cold cloth on his leader's head, and gave him a brew to drink.

"You are burning up with fever," he muttered, worry showing on his face.  
"No… I haven't done anything to merit burning... I want to be shot or hung!" Athos' eyes were unfocused.  
"Why?" Aramis was close to tears. He felt helpless. His side was on fire, and his head was pounding. He was definitely not ready for any kind of conversation.

"Because you're dead- and you have come back," supplied d'Artagnan.  
"Am I already dead?" Athos sounded fascinated with the idea.

"NO! You are delirious!" cried Aramis.  
"I had his bloody shirt in my hands." – protested the boy.  
"I can give you another one! It means nothing except that the shirt needs to be washed!"

The short moment of silence that followed was a great relief.

"May I take care of your injuries?" asked Flea, coming over to them. She was carrying an armful of guns, which she deposited on the floor.

Aramis wanted to refuse her help, but Porthos squeezed his leg tighter. The Spaniard reluctantly nodded his consent, and pulled off his doublet and shirt. He glanced awkwardly at the long gash on his side.  
"The bullet went along the ribs. Just patch it up. The gash is not deep enough to need stitches," he said softly, fatigue in his voice. Flea started to work on him.

"Mis…? Why… did they enjoy it? It is… forbidden by the Church…" D'Artagnan's voice sounded small and tentative.  
"No idea."  
"Have you ever made love to a woman without her consent?"  
"NEVER!" Aramis felt insulted, but he knew that d'Artagnan was not to blame, as he was not really lucid. It was wrong of him to shout at the boy. But the questions he was asking...

"Forcing someone against their will has NOTHING in common with love," he muttered. "Haven't you learned anything about love from Constance?"  
"Constance… she was right to throw me away… she would just be humiliated by me now…"

"Aramis?" Flea's voice sounded lucid and calm. "I think it would be good if you could coax d'Artagnan to eat something. Am I wrong?"  
"No." He thanked her with a nod and took the bowl of broth from her hands.  
He helped the boy sit up, and put an arm around him to offer some support. "I need for you to drink this."  
"What for?"  
"To feel better."  
"I don't want to feel better. I would just betray myself further if I felt better. Nice try, though…"  
"D'Artagnan, what happened – happened."  
"I'll resign my commission! I am no longer worthy to be a musketeer. You should do the same. Our lives are forfeit."  
"Just drink that damn broth! Athos, who is still our lieutenant, ordered me to save you!" spat Aramis.  
"Forgive me, Mis…"whispered the boy, his eyes full of tears. "I have no right to make decisions for myself any more. I am just a commodity."

The Spaniard realized that those words should have triggered an intense reaction from Porthos, but the dark skinned musketeer's hand, still lying on his leg, remained limp. The medic leaned towards Porthos, and desperately checked for a pulse. When he found it, he nearly fainted with relief.

D'Artagnan took a few sips of broth, then gave the bowl back to Flea. He started to doze off, and Flea finished the soup.

Aramis desperately wanted a reprieve, but Athos apparently had other plans for him.

"God, she had the same look in her eyes as he has. What if she told me the truth? What if he did try to rape her? God… my brother was a monster."  
"Athos… you don't know for sure...you'll never know. You were grieving. You were in shock!"  
"No… my mind was clear. It was my duty. I had to hang her."  
"No! If your mind had really been clear, you would have imprisoned her, conducted an investigation, and then made a decision."  
"I was afraid she would somehow convince me to believe her...I loved her, Aramis! I still love her!"

Aramis remained silent. What was he supposed to say? He had never known Thomas. He had not known Milady when she was Athos' wife. Five years of hardship can change a person dramatically...just as five years had changed Marsac…

"Have you ever slept with her?", asked Athos.  
"No. I guess I had nothing to offer her."

"I made a monster of an innocent woman… because of a monster in my house… "  
"As far as I can see, she was not so innocent," he observed quietly.  
"But there are accused criminals in this world who have later been found out to be innocent victims. I did not want to believe it... I could not believe it! Not my Thomas…"  
"He was your brother, but he had his own mind," stated Aramis calmly. He changed the cloth to a cold one, concerned by how fast the last one had heated up.  
"Aramis… what did you feel...when they… had you?"

The Spaniard tried to breathe. He tried to think of how he could avoid the question. Maybe he could faint?

"Like a shell… like nothing is left." He distantly heard a voice replying, and vaguely realized that it sounded like his own. "The helplessness is overwhelming...and the humiliation is complete. "  
He felt as if he was suffocating.

 **Riversiadewren, thank you so much!**

 **Hm… do you think Athos should remember his conversations with Aramis?**


	25. Chapter 25

Flea

She glanced at Aramis. His eyes were unfocused. He was curled up as tightly as his limbs would allow him, shivers racking his body.  
"Aramis?" she asked urgently. He showed no reaction to her voice.  
"Aramis?!" she repeated, dread in her heart. Had Athos just sent their only medic into shock?! She draped a blanket around Aramis, but he remained motionless except for the trembling of his body.

Flea decided that perhaps he badly needed time alone. However, she observed him worriedly.

She felt so helpless. She hated feeling that way. She was close to losing her dearest friend. Her only friend. She was not a trained medic, but she knew that there was little chance that Porthos' condition would improve, especially when he was not able to keep anything down. How could his body recover from the injuries without water? Without food? She stroked his short hair gently.

Then she went over to Athos in order to change the cold cloth on his face. She cursed when she realized how hot he was. Perhaps a wet sheet would help?  
"Mis?" rasped Athos.  
"No, not Aramis-Flea. Drink this." She gave him the rest of tea that Aramis had prepared.  
"Anne?" he muttered.

She sighed. The pieces of information that she had gathered from his delirious talk with Aramis had not given her any insight into what really had happened. Had Athos killed his wife? Why had he thought it was his duty? Was she a witch?

"Anne… it is so hot in here…"  
"You've got a fever. That's why you feel like that."  
He opened his eyes, which appeared unfocused. He did not look in her direction, but instead stared at the dirty wall.

"I should have let him go with you… he would have been happy with you… and instead I failed him. He is dead because of me. You were right… I am a terrible older brother…"

"Athos… you should rest," she murmured soothingly. She had the impression that his fever was continuing to rise, and was afraid for him. She checked on him regularly, only to find her fears confirmed- his fever was still spiking.

Finally, her fear spurred her into action. She knelt in front of the medic and called his name, but he showed no reaction to her words. She tried once more, to no avail. As a last resort, she took a breath to steady herself, then slapped him in the face. She never quite understood what happened next. In an instant, she was on her back, her hand twisted painfully behind her as his weight pinned her to the floor.

"Aramis!" she whimpered.  
She saw Etienne quickly move towards them, but she desperately shook her head, imploring him with her eyes to stay away. She could deal with Aramis, but she had to act quickly-before any of her bones were broken.

"Aramis! It's Flea… I am so sorry… Athos needs you!"  
He did not let her go, but the pressure on her arm significantly diminished.  
She tried again. "Athos needs you! Your brother needs your help!"

The Spaniard's eyes finally focused on her face, and he released her with a mumbled apology.

"It's not your fault, Aramis. I was stupid," she replied ruefully, rubbing her hand. She did not protest when he checked on her wrist, his touch this time so gentle.

"You'll feel uncomfortable for a few hours-maybe a day. I am so sorry."  
She shook her head. His brothers were dying around them, and he was worried about her hand!

"Athos needs you. His fever is too high," she said, and sighed. "I wouldn't have disturbed you, but…he kept getting worse, and I didn't know what to do!" She felt so helpless, and she hated it. She had sworn to herself that she would never again feel the way she had felt when she had lost her older sister-the only family member that she had any memory of.

Aramis checked on his leader and cursed.  
"Forgive me…" whispered Athos.  
"What should I forgive, brother?" the medic asked softly.  
"I left you behind… in Paris. It was so stupid of me… not to realize that Allancourt was still a threat to you." Athos' voice was weak-actually, barely audible-but he seemed to be far more lucid then before.  
"You wanted to protect us…" answered Aramis calmly. "You did what you thought was best. Now, I am afraid that I have to clean your wound again. I have to warn you that you won't like it."  
"Do what you have to do… and don't feel guilty if it's not enough to save me."  
"No, Athos! Don't even try to say your farewell!" whispered Aramis brokenly.

Flea bit her lip. Athos had nearly sent Aramis' soul into darkness, yet the Spaniard was acting as if nothing had happened! The medic was a real mystery to her.

Aramis focused on the wound, which was looking very bad. Etienne came to his side, anticipating that Aramis would need him to hold Athos still. However, both musketeers were frightened by the fact that their patient offered no resistance at all.

"That is a very bad sign," muttered Etienne.  
"It is," agreed Aramis, his face grave. "I hope Madame Louise arrives soon."  
"I am guessing we will have to wait a day...or maybe even more. Will you be able to manage, Aramis?" The lieutenant looked directly into his eyes, pleading for an honest answer.

The medic lowered his gaze.  
"I have to," he replied quietly, and finished bandaging the wound. Athos was already unconscious, and Aramis hoped his friend would be granted the rest his body so desperately needed. The medic then asked for a wet sheet.

Fleas smiled to herself for an instant. So her instinct had been right!

Etienne helped wrap the sheet around Athos, noting how the wounded man leaned into the coldness of the material.

"If you want me to remain conscious, talk to me!" whispered Aramis.  
"About what?"  
"Why doesn't Athos like you?" the medic asked as he began to change his brothers' bandages.  
"He knew me when I was… part of a noble family. Our families shared some business ventures. Don't ask me what it was about-I never really had any interest in it. Obviously, it was my duty as my father's son to learn about the family business. However, I much preferred spending time with the baker's daughter. When she became pregnant, we eloped. My father disowned me, and quite a few noblemen started citing me to their children as the worst possible example of a son."  
"Marie was your first love?"  
"Yes-and the only one."

Flea discreetly observed Etienne as he told the tale. His story was quite unusual. She had dealt with many women who had been abandoned by their lovers and left alone with an illegitimate child. She guessed that the reason for Athos' dislike was not as simple as Etienne thought. She was quite astonished by the lack of any comment from Aramis, but perhaps the medic was simply concentrating on caring for the wounds.

"How is he?" she asked when Etienne's voice trailed off. Aramis followed her gaze, which had not left Porthos' face.  
"I don't know," he whispered. "There is no sign of infection, and that is good-but..." He hesitated, then admitted, "His condition worries me."

"Not the best bedside manner…" A hoarse whisper startled them. Flea could not hide her smile as she leaned over Porthos.  
"How do you feel?" she asked gently.  
"Tired…" he muttered. "Mis?"

The Spaniard brought a cup of strong smelling liquid to his lips  
"You must drink it."  
"Mis..." he protested.  
Flea squeezed his hand reassuringly. She trusted that the medic knew what he was doing.  
"A sip? Just for a start?" coaxed Aramis, his voice soft.  
Porthos obeyed, but suddenly his eyes widened with panic.  
"Did I hurt you?" Aramis asked urgently, coming close to panic himself.  
Flea followed Porthos' gaze, and froze.  
D'Artagnan had the gun in his hand.  
The gun was pointed at his head.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**

 **DebbieF, thank you for reminding me about the gun : )**


	26. Chapter 26

D'Artagnan

He was confused. He had lost the ability to discern which thoughts were real and which were hallucinations-or horrible dreams.

He was not even sure if the gun in his hand was real, but he assumed it was. If he was not holding an actual weapon, it would not matter. But if the pistol was real and loaded…

He might still be a prisoner. If yes, he would regain his freedom in death.

He might have already been freed by his brothers. If yes…

There was no reason for him to live. He was not sure what he thought about Aramis (if his friend was actually real). Did he admire the medic? Or did he find Aramis and his will to live worthy only of contempt ? He could not find the strength to struggle anymore. The Gascon stubbornness which his brothers had liked to joke about had died. He had no will to live. He felt as if he was floating on the surface of hell, and he did not want that to last.

There was nobody to anchor him to this world. There was no Athos. His father was dead. He was alone. Abandoned. Was Athos dead?

If the answer was yes, that gave him another reason to die.

Perhaps Aramis had survived this kind of abuse earlier. Maybe… maybe his bond with Porthos was enough to save him...or maybe his faith was. But God was supposed to condemn them for what had happened. (If God was real.) For Aramis, God was real. But his loving, compassionate God did not have much in common with the God of the Church. (Aramis' God was not real for the Church). They would be burned at the stake if the truth was revealed. And the fire would be real...D'Artagnan was certain of that.

So he really had nothing to lose. If the weapon was merely part of a dream, he would wake up as a prisoner- or as an ex-prisoner. If the weapon was real, he would finally be free.

"No!" A desperate scream. Aramis. (If he was real.)  
He had died.  
D'Artagnan had killed him with his own hands.

He watched the ghost with a sad smile.  
Smile?  
Did he really remember how to smile?  
"So you came here. You stayed with me after all. I am grateful."  
"D'Artagnan, brother, put down the weapon!"

How could he put down the weapon? His hand curled around the gun was lying on the pallet. The metal barrel caressed the bruised skin on the temple. The touch was welcome. It promised peace. (If it was real.)

"Mis… If it is you… Tell Athos… I am sorry."  
"Athos is here! He is unconscious. Put away the weapon and wait for him to wake up."  
"He won't wake up! He is dead! Don't lie to me, Aramis." Even to himself, his voice sounded so strange.  
"He is alive! We are all alive...and please, let us stay that way!"

"Mis… I… I don't judge you for the decisions you have made. If you want so badly to live after all that has happened, go ahead-try. I wish you luck...and I hope your God will have mercy upon you. But I do not have your strength… nor your faith. We had some wonderful times together. All of you… I was proud to call all of you brothers… but I've failed so totally… However, I am… so grateful for your brotherhood. And now, just let me go…"

"Do you want to leave me here?!"

Oh, God. Oh, Aramis. I do not even know what you mean by "here." Am I going to leave you in the hands of our tormentors? Or with our brothers?

"I must go. I hope my father… will forgive me…" He hated the tears he felt on his cheek. He was so weak! He was a burden for everyone who cared for him.

Constance had been right to stay with her husband. She was a wise woman.

"D'Artagnan, please! You are safe!" A hoarse voice. He glanced at its source. Porthos tried to pull himself up, and was half lying, half sitting. His position was awkward, and obviously painful. (If Porthos was real.)

"Lie down, you'll hurt yourself! I don't want to harm you. If you are real… I have never intended to… no… I did challenge you the first time we met. But after that… I never wanted to hurt you. Please, believe me!"

"If you shoot yourself, you will hurt me more than you can ever imagine," Porthos murmured, his tone grave.

"Porthos… forget me… Please! I am not worthy to be part of your memories. Please… Take care of Aramis... if he is alive… if you are alive… I do not deserve it, but I beg you to allow me to die with dignity…"  
(If death is real).

Why were they crying? Who was that fair-haired woman?  
Were they real?  
It did not matter.  
He was not their brother anymore. Even if they were real.  
They needed to understand that.

He wanted so badly to see Athos' eyes. But d'Artagnan knew that even if his mentor was alive, he would not be able to bear the scrutiny of his blue eyes. He had failed. He had betrayed them. However, he could not remember exactly what he had done to betray them.

Ah! He had killed Aramis.  
So who was that man?!  
One of his tormentors!  
And he was definitely too close.

D'Artagnan tried to avoid the bandit leaping for him. He pulled the trigger.

He was dead.  
He was dead.  
He was free.  
He felt the blood on his face.  
Little crimson drops.  
Someone was screaming.  
Obviously, his captors were furious with him.  
Why the man who had tried to seize him lying on his bed roll?  
On his former bed roll.  
Near his cooling body.  
Why couldn't he see his body?!

Why did the other one lunge towards his fallen tormentor with a pained scream?  
Why was he crying, rocking the other man in his arms?  
Why was his face deadly white, partially hidden in unruly dark hair?

Then suddenly, his gaze met the man's eyes.  
Brown eyes. Full of pain.  
Porthos' eyes?  
Could this be real?  
Because if it was real, it meant...  
It meant…

D'Artagnan looked at the gun in his hand, and recoiled as if he was holding a snake.  
He knew that gun.  
It was Athos' weapon.  
Aramis had given that pistol to Athos when their leader had lost his in an ambush.  
Aramis?!

It could not be real!  
The limp body in Porthos' arms?!  
It could not be real!  
The blood on his face and hair?!  
It could not be real!  
It could not...  
It could not...  
It could not...

He would wake up...  
He had to wake up.

 **I am leaving for the weekend tomorrow directly after work. I hope you won't kill me but you are going to wait a while for the next update. Ah, one important thing - my awesome Beta (thank you once more -Riversidewren) does not know whole story so killing me won't give you much.**

 **If you have any suggestions about farther d'Artagnan's reactions I'll be grateful. I can't promise I will follow them but I'll be happy to read your ideas!**

 **Have you guessed it, DebbieF?**


	27. Chapter 27

Porthos

His world was falling apart. He could not believe what he was witnessing! He lunged towards Aramis, who was sprawled lifelessly on d'Artagnan's pallet. There was already so much blood on Aramis' face and hair!

Porthos did not really feel the spike of pain that ran through his abdomen when he gathered his limp brother into his arms. He knew he should check on him, but he was terrified of what he might find. He did not want to face a reality in which his dear friend was dead. He preferred to have hope...if only for a few minutes longer.

He positioned Aramis so that the medic's limp head was hidden in the crook of his arm. Porthos buried his face in Aramis' hair. It took a while before his eyes, filled with tears, focused on d'Artagnan. The Gascon was obviously terrified, and Porthos could not find any words to comfort him. D'Artagnan looked so young, and Porthos was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would not be able to restrain his fury. The poor boy did not deserve his anger. After all, it was not his fault that he had been drugged. It was not his fault that he had shot Aramis.

He had shot Aramis.

Porthos could not bear the sight anymore. He closed his eyes. All he wanted now was to die with his brother. He felt hot blood on his skin, and assumed that his wound must have reopened. He could not have cared less at that moment.

Someone was talking-maybe even screaming at him. He ignored the voice.

It was so unjust! To be killed by a friend-a brother! After all Aramis had suffered! After all his struggle to carry on..after all their struggles to keep him alive!

Allancourt had won. He had destroyed them...and they would never know why.

The pain was becoming unbearable. Porthos was not sure if it was the agony of his injured body or the ache of his broken soul.

Suddenly, he felt Aramis stirring in his arms. He held his breath and waited. Only then did he feel a few shallow, tentative breaths on his skin.

"Aramis?" he whispered. He wanted to look at his brother, and tried to pull away a bit. The Spaniard clung desperately to him.

"Aramis… you're alive! You… fool… you reckless idiot!" he whispered affectionately. "Never scare me like that again!"  
He felt panic surging into his body when the medic showed no reaction. However, his tight grip on Porthos' shirt was a sign of life. Of hope.

"Aramis, you're bleeding badly! I need to tend to you. Let me do it…"

The marksman lifted his head to look at his brother...and Porthos had never been happier than when he saw that pair of dull brown eyes. Even if one of them was partially covered in blood-which Aramis promptly tried to wipe off on Porthos' arm.

The dark skinned musketeer smiled.  
Aramis watched him intently, then his eyes suddenly went wide.  
"You should lie down!" Aramis pulled away slowly. He had seen the fresh blood on Porthos' shirt. The big man was sure of it after he saw the grim expression on the medic's face.

"God…" Aramis whispered. He looked around and cursed, the blood impairing his vision.

"Flea... bandages!" called Porthos urgently. The woman nodded, and complied with his order. She quickly tore up some cloth and reached for the bowl of water.  
"I'll patch him up," she stated firmly. "Etienne, could you take care of Porthos? And please watch the boy. I wouldn't get too close to him, but don't let him do anything stupid."

Porthos felt proud of his lover.  
His lover?  
His shocked, tired brain was bewildered by that thought. After he had left the Court, he had never thought of Flea as his lover, regardless of the nights they had spent together after Charon's death. But he realized now that he still loved her. This was a strange time for such a revelation. However he was so shaken, hurt, and fatigued that… he could not deny his feelings anymore.

He watched Flea as she cleaned Aramis' face. The bullet had grazed the side of his head, leaving a long, shallow wound on his cheek and temple. It would scar badly. But for the moment, Porthos was grateful that the wound would have a chance to become a scar-because this meant that his brother was still alive.

Porthos' musings were abruptly cut short by Etienne pressing a cloth to his bleeding wound. The other musketeer mumbled some apologies, obviously shocked.

"Allow us explain this mess to the Captain," murmured Porthos.  
"I think that is a good idea," replied Etienne in a low voice. The dark skinned musketeer knew that the lieutenant was well aware that his goal was to protect his brother...and he had granted him a chance to do so. He was grateful.

Suddenly, he was too tired to say anything, and he closed his eyes.

"Porthos, stay with me!" Aramis' voice was urgent. Porthos leaned into the medic's touch, although he knew it would hurt.  
"Do what you have to do," he whispered.

Then he felt the burning pain. He tried to escape it, but someone held him still. He whimpered in agony, ashamed that he was not able to remain silent. Everything went white, then slowly started to fade into grey. He wanted to drift away into the darkness, but a voice would not allow it. The voice was pleading with him. It was so broken-so frightened.

He could not resist it any longer. He opened his eyes, only to look into brown orbs full of worry.  
He croaked out a sound, which was supposed to be a sign that he was still conscious . Aramis supported him gently, and gave him a few sips of an awful herbal brew. It tasted terrible, but he was too thirsty to decline it...and strangely, his stomach seemed to accept the horrible liquid.

Then the medic laid him down gently, and tucked a blanket around him. He wanted to pull away. Aramis looked so ill and fragile, a bloody bandage on his head.

"Mis, you need to rest!" Porthos managed to whisper.  
"I must take care of d'Artagnan..." The medic's voice was so soft and weak.

Flea helpfully updated them on the Gascon's condition. "He is asleep...or unconscious... for now."

"Aramis...you have to be in good enough shape to take care of all of us...so sleep!" pleaded Porthos as he started to doze off. He seized Aramis' hand, and did not plan on releasing it anytime soon.

The Spaniard tried to think of a good reason to leave, but after a while, he gave in, and lay down next to Porthos. He immediately buried his face in the big man's arm. His whole demeanor spoke volumes – he desperately needed the comfort which Porthos' solid presence could give him. The dark skinned musketeer smiled fondly as he cradled his friend in his arms, and finally allowed himself to fall asleep.

 **So I am sorry if you hoped that d'Artagnan killed Aramis, I mean if you really wanted a killed Aramis.**

 **I hope you'll enjoy it!**

 **Riversidewren, thank you!**


	28. Chapter 28

Flea  
She watched over the sleeping musketeers. Quite often, she found herself checking to see if they were still breathing. She was not quite sure if she was doing it for her own peace of mind. She could not forget the fear that she had felt when she had seen a limp Aramis in Porthos' arms just after d'Artagnan had shot him. She had understood then that Porthos would never survive Aramis' death...and that thought had frightened her so much!

So now, she needed to be reassured that the marksman was alive. He felt slightly too warm for her liking, but she decided not to wake him. He badly needed rest, and at this point, he seemed almost comfortable.

She helped Etienne change the wet sheet that Athos was wrapped in. It seemed to have heated up much too fast. The man's condition was deteriorating quickly. He was lying motionless. Only his labored breathing showed that he was still alive.

She had seen people dying from fever too many times, and she knew that the musketeer was close to death. Only a miracle could save him now. She glanced at Aramis, whose face was buried in Porthos' arm. She found herself staring at his pale hands. Were they the hands of a miracle worker?

D'Artagnan groaned, and tried to sit up.  
"Hello!" She moved over and sat down close to him. "Don't try to get up just yet. We have to talk."  
She hoped that the boy would be lucid enough to comprehend what she was saying.

"Whh..?"  
"Hush... drink it." She gave him water. Aramis had instructed her not to give him any herbs due to the unknown drugs which were still in his system.

He drank a few sips, and opened his eyes. She knew that the terrible memories were returning when his eyes grew wide with terror.

"I killed Aramis!" he cried.  
"No! You only wounded him. Not the smartest move to injure our only medic. Do you know who I am?" she asked.  
"Yes... You're Flea… Queen of the Court of Miracles… how... how badly did I wound him?"  
"With your words or with the bullet?"

The boy did not reply.

"The gunshot is a superficial wound...just a large scratch, really. He'll recover from that. But your words... how could you tell him that he was not worthy to live?"

"What do you know about it?!"

"Don't talk so loudly! It's best that we not wake them. I know everything that happened, because I patched you up while Aramis was busy keeping Porthos and Athos from bleeding out...and I can understand why you want to die." Her voice trailed off for a moment.

She leaned over the boy to look him in the eyes. His eyes were so sad and frightened-they were the eyes of an abused child, not a soldier.

"I don't know you, d'Artagnan," she continued slowly. "Obviously, I wouldn't have wanted you to blow your head off, but what I cannot accept are the consequences of your death...and I will never accept them!"

"What do you mean?" He was confused.

"It's simple... If you die by your own hand, your brothers will be tormented by guilt. And that guilt will finish them. They are all wounded souls who carefully built their brotherhood, all the while knowing that they were running the risk once again losing someone close to them. Porthos lost his mother, then tried to built a home with me and Charon...but that didn't really work. He took the first opportunity to leave the Court. He begged me to go with him, but I refused, so he lost his family once more. The loss was completed by Charon's betrayal and death. After leaving the Court, he built a new family with Athos and Aramis. He needs people to love them and protect them. D'Artagnan, he has acknowledged you as his little brother. He accepts you. He loves you. If he loses you in battle he will be devastated, but I suppose he would survive it." As long as he has Aramis, she added silently to herself.

"But if that happened, he would have his hands full keeping Athos under control. It's a lot of work to bring the drunk comte home again and again... and to constantly have to be on guard against his suicidal instincts. I doubt Athos would survive your death…"

"I think Porthos would come to terms with your death, especially because there would have been nothing he could have done to save you. But... if you kill yourself, the situation will be entirely different. Nobody will be able to convince him that there was nothing he could have done to save you. He will go and kill Allancourt, knowing full well that he will be arrested and hung. And I do not want to lose him! But it's not just about Porthos... Athos will kill himself if you commit suicide. I have no idea how he would decide to end his life, but I am quite sure he would be dead within a week or two after your death. And then there's Aramis. For him, he will see you an example that he needs to follow. He is close to the edge, you know...but he struggles to keep it together because he knows that his death would destroy his brothers. His only thought was to save you. Do you want to punish him for what has happened to you? Did he do anything to make your life worse?"

"No... no... but... they were fine before I stormed into their lives!"

"Let me put it to you this way... would you try to comfort parents who have lost their baby by telling them that they were happy a year ago without that child...so why they are mourning now?"  
"I don't know what to do... I don't understand... I am tired..."

"What you need to understand is that you mustn't kill yourself! You have brothers... let them help you! Even if they are guilt ridden and wounded, they want to help you!"

"They... don't want me..."

Flea sighed.  
"Listen, they did everything to find you! Athos and Porthos were seriously wounded during the fight, and Athos' wound is badly infected. That is why he is not with you. He's barely hanging on! Don't blame him for not being by your side! As for Porthos, he was badly stabbed. And Aramis...he gives you the best care he can, regardless of his own injuries!" She fell silent as Etienne approached them.

"Can you please wake Aramis?" he asked gently, glancing at Athos.

She left d'Artagnan and went over to the marksman, gently stroking his hair while she whispered his name.

"Ana, per favor..." he whispered in response.

"Aramis.. we need you. I am so sorry to wake you..."

He reluctantly untangled himself from Porthos' arms and sat up. He swayed a little, so Flea grabbed him by the shoulders to support him.

"You've got a fever!" she said, her voice anxious.  
"It's not high," he mumbled, which was true.

"Aramis, it's Athos. He's worse," said Etienne, his face grim.  
The medic knelt down by Athos' side, frowning as he felt the heat radiating from his friend's body.

"Flea, I need some hot water."

Etienne passed him a pot with boiling water. Aramis put a few different leaves and flowers inside the pot. He mixed the solution well, then took a cloth and immersed it in the hot liquid.

"Shall I expose the wound for you?" asked Flea.  
"Yes. And… Etienne- hold him down."  
Flea winced when she saw the infected wound. The skin was hot to the touch, and had turned an angry red color. A thick, yellow, foul-smelling pus oozed from the wound.

Aramis took the hot cloth, which was practically burning his fingers, and placed it directly on the wound. Athos' only reaction was to shiver slightly. The medic bowed his head, knowing that there was not much more he could do for his leader.

"We should put some more of that brew on the poultice," he said softly. "And we must make him drink this..." he pointed to one of the cups, "...as often as possible. If his fever does not break, he won't live to see the dawn," he whispered, feeling a sense of defeat.

"Why don't you cauterize it?" Flea asked.  
"It's too late for that," he replied, his face grim.

"Someone is coming!" Jansard stormed into the house, and began to gather the weapons.

"Aramis? Flea?" Etienne gestured to the pile of guns.  
They understood.  
Aramis tenderly stroked Porthos' cheek, saying a silent farewell. The wounded musketeer opened his eyes, and Aramis gently placed the pistol in his hands. Porthos understood at once.

Flea flinched when Aramis glanced at her. His eyes were devoid of any hope. She knew that their situation was dire.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren. Thank you all for reading and reviewing. It means a lot to me. I am afraid that next update will be Sunday evening.**


	29. Chapter 29

Tréville

Finally, he could leave Paris. It was a rainy evening, but Tréville was determined to set out immediately. He did not want to spend another night dreaming about gaping holes instead of eyes on the face of his best marksman. He could not imagine how he would deal with Porthos if it was true. If Aramis were now blind, he would lose both men.

The documents he had found in his archives had cast some light on Allancourt's motives. There was not enough information to formally accuse him, but enough to know that his main aim had been to destroy Athos. Not to kill him, but to destroy his soul. That was why d'Artagnan had been selected as a target.

Tréville had initially been puzzled as to why Aramis and not Porthos had been chosen as the second target. Then he had remembered that Aramis had had an affair with Allancourt's wife...and Porthos' protectiveness towards Aramis was not a secret,. However, it was evident that Allancourt had a good informant. The question was - who? It was not that complicated to get the details of the legendary bond between the Inseparables.

Tréville wanted to believe that the spy was not within the garrison. However, he had to investigate that possibility... just in case.

He took three volunteers with him, and headed toward Epi-sur-Esonne. The lack of any news was disturbing. He guessed that Porthos had remained with Aramis, while the others had gone to search for d'Artagnan.

It was the ride from hell. They stopped only for a brief moment to change horses. Tréville tried his best not to speculate about the fate of his men. The November nights were dark and stormy, and the desolate countryside was thick with mud. It seemed as if he was slogging through an enormous old battlefield, the remains of which were not recognizable.

 _Aramis, his eyes covered with a cloth bound around his head, was kneeling before the King. His pauldron was in his hands as he prepared to give it back to the monarch. Louis, fascinated by the gruesome reports he had heard, could not resist ordering Aramis to show him his wounds._

 _The silent Queen left, her eyes full of tears. She had refused the cross that Aramis had tried to return to her. He knew he would never be her champion again._

 _The King, with a kind of morbid curiosity mixed with disgust, was staring at the empty eye sockets in Aramis' deathly pale face._

 _Tréville knew would happen next. He was certain what would he find the next morning- Aramis dead in Porthos' arms. The blind marksman had finished himself off with his favorite pistol, the gold cross held tightly in his cooling fingers. The last Savoy soldier had finally met the end that had been fated for him. The Duke could sleep peacefully now._

"Captain?"  
He awoke with a start, and offered up a silent prayer. God... please do not let this happen! Then he cursed, as he had not planned to fall asleep while riding.

He saw a few brighter points in the darkness, likely the flicker of candles near the windows. Some of inhabitants of Epi-sur-Esonne were not asleep yet.

He made his way to the herbwoman's house, and was astonished to see her mounting a horse.

"Madame?" he called urgently.  
"Captain Tréville," she greeted him. "I am setting out to go help your men. Now that you are here, I hope I can count on your company," she said, bowing her head. Pierre sat on the horse next to her.

"Of course. Madame, what have you heard? What happened?"  
"They found the bo… I mean, Monsieur d'Artagnan. There was a fight...they have quite a few men wounded, so Monsieur Etienne sent Pierre to fetch me."

He nodded, knowing that he had to ask about Aramis. He needed to know who was taking care of him. More importantly, he had to find the courage to talk to the marksman before leaving the village.

"Is Aramis here?" he asked quietly.  
"No. They went together-all of them."

They had taken a blind man with them?! He knew Inseparables sometimes did foolish things, but Etienne should have... thought for them.

"He can see, sir," said Pierre timidly.  
"What?" Tréville felt hope stirring in his heart.  
"Monsieur Aramis did not lose his eyes," repeated the boy. Tréville suddenly felt several few years younger.

"That's good! Was he in good enough shape to fight?!"  
"Well... one might say so," Louise replied swiftly.

They rode on in silence. Tréville knew he would have to get any further details about Aramis' condition from Porthos or from Aramis himself. Louise did not easily give up the secrets of her patients.

Instead, the Captain questioned the boy about the condition of the search party.

He had lost two musketeers-at least two.

They stopped for a few hours at an abandoned house, taking only a short rest after nearly three days of hard riding. Tréville was incredibly tired. However, there was no way they he wanted to stop longer than was essential for the horses. He was grateful that Louise was of the same opinion. In fact, it was the herbwoman who insisted on an earlier departure.

It was a grey, dreary afternoon when they arrived at the lonely farm on the little hill. Fog and smoke were coiled around the building. There were shadows lurking everywhere, and he suspected that there were guards hiding somewhere in those shadows.

"Don't shoot!" He heard a familiar voice call out. One of the shadows stepped into the road, and another one stood slightly behind him. Tréville spurred his horse into a gallop and stopped abruptly in front of Aramis.

It was indeed a shadow of Aramis. The man was deathly pale, with dried blood covering part of his face. He had a bandage on his head. His eyes were empty of emotion, although there was a spark of recognition there. His disheveled hair was matted with blood.

"Captain. Madame Louise." The marksman acknowledged both of them with a small bow of his head.

Tréville tossed his reins to Pierre, and dismounted. It seemed as if Aramis flinched, but the marksman was not aware of it. His body swayed as his eyes rolled back. He never touched the ground, as in one swift motion the Captain caught his marksman. He was surprised at how light Aramis was. He was sure he had never felt the musketeer's bones so easily, not even after Savoy…

Several musketeers rushed to help him.

"Take him inside-gently! He has many injuries!" ordered Flea.  
"Do as she says!" declared the Captain firmly. His words earned him a brief smile from the blond woman, who had her arms full of guns.  
"You are the healer, aren't you?" she asked Louise, her voice husky. "They need you," she stated simply, then ran after the men carrying Aramis.

Tréville followed them, motioning for Etienne to come with him.

"Aramis?!" gasped Porthos  
"He's fine...he has only fainted. I wasn't aware that part of the ritual of greeting your captain involved fainting," Flea said teasingly, trying to relax Porthos a bit. She ordered the men to lay the marksman down near Porthos.

"Report!" demanded Tréville, his eyes fixed on Etienne. He listened to his lieutenant's account in silence. When Etienne had finished, the Captain glanced at the Inseparables.

Aramis was sitting up, supported by Flea. Louise was busy checking on Athos. Tréville approached them.

"I hear it's bad." He observed Aramis closely as he waited for a reply.  
"Yes, it is," replied the medic simply.

Louise nodded in agreement  
"Aramis, you have done well. I'll take care of him. You should eat something."  
"I'll get some broth," offered Flea.  
"No… we don't have much left. Save it for the wounded men."  
"So, you are not only injured, but also short of food?", asked Louise slowly.

Tréville cursed himself for not having thought to bring supplies with him.

"Well, then it's fortunate that I brought some things along with me," said Louise with a smile. "I baked some bread with a large amount of herbs especially for you, Aramis. I have also some fresh cheese. Pierre, prepare a good dinner, please."

The captain was really impressed by the herbwoman. The way she took over, confidently giving out orders, was quite amazing.

"Aramis, I want to hear your report from the time you spent in captivity," he said quietly, sitting down near the marksman. He was quite sure that the man wanted to back away from him, but there was no room to do so.

"Sir… may I resign my commission?", the Spaniard asked softly.  
"We have had this conversation once before, and the answer is still no, Aramis. I'm waiting for your report."

He remembered the young, broken soldier standing in front of him several years ago. Aramis had wanted to turn in his pauldron then. However, the Captain could ill afford to lose another man, especially not after the loss of 21 soldiers. Aramis had not survived the massacre only to resign.

Aramis gave him a concise report, but he avoided looking the Captain. Tréville noted that Porthos was giving the Spaniard silent support, his hand resting on the medic's leg.

That is a good sign, he thought with relief. Their bond has survived. Their trust has survived.

"Aramis, your request is denied, but you will be given the time you need to recover-and I will allow your brothers to care for you if they wish."  
"Always," replied Porthos, his voice hoarse but sure. "I told you once, 'Mis, the Captain won't let you go unless you find a better marksman than you."

Tréville waited for Aramis' retort, but none came.

The Spaniard put his hand on Porthos' shoulder.  
"You should eat something," he said gently.  
"I prefer your horrible brew. God, did I just say that?!"

Tréville smiled to himself. He trusted that Porthos would save Aramis once more. He glanced over at Athos. Louise was dripping some liquid into his mouth. He fervently hoped that the herbwoman and Aramis could save his lieutenant. He did not even want to think of the alternative.

 **Riversidewren, thank you. I can only confirm that you don't have the direct influence at the story.**

 **Guests, I wish I could answer you personally and discuss with you your points of view. As there is not such a possibility I'll try to answers shortly. There is a difference between kill himself and commit suicide. Maybe Athos would not shoot himself or stabbed but drink himself to death or be a little too sloppy in the fight. However the combination of grief and alcohol may make one do things without thinking about others. As for Aramis – he is at the edge – emotionally and physically drained. He had have no time to recover after tortures and the need to save d'Artagnan has been his lifeline. Once again maybe he would not die exactly by his hand but he would effectively court Death. However in his current condition everything is possible. Maybe I was too delicate in my description to give the right impression of what he has survived / what was done to him.**

 **As to Porthos – the one whom Flea knows the best – I agree with her – he would go and kill Allancourt regardless of consequences.**

 **What can I say more – Flea does not know the Inseparables well. Her intention was to show d'Artagnan that he was cared. She did it in her own harsh way.**

 **Thank you all for reading and reviewing.**


	30. Chapter 30

**A small gift for my awesome Beta :)**

Athos

Hell. He finally had found his way here. He had known all along that this was where he would end up. However, he had not expected Hell to be so awfully hot. That was not so brilliant of him, he thought with irritation. Every breath felt as if he was breathing in fire.

Breathing? So condemned souls still had the ability to breathe...

He must have been moving, because now he stopped-and watched. He should have left. It was definitely inappropriate to watch a couple making love... even if the woman was his wife and the man involved was his protégé. He saw the knife in her hand, and wanted to scream. He continue to stare, mesmerized as the blade caressed the boy's neck and back.

"No!" he cried desperately. She untangled herself from d'Artagnan and stood naked in front of Athos. She was so painfully beautiful. He found himself desiring her more than anything. He wanted to take her into his arms, to love her.

Then it hit him. His friend had cheated on him with his wife! Suddenly, he was furious with the Gascon.

"Olivier." Anne smiled at him reproachfully. "You abandoned me. How can you be angry because I have not been faithful to you?"  
She came closer to him, and her fingers touched his cheek. He looked into her bewitching green eyes, and felt so lost.

"I thought that we would find peace in death, but I was wrong. How ironic...it seems that even in Hell we are fated to be together. At one time, I truly believed that we were meant for each other. It is sad how it all ended."

"You killed him! You killed d'Artagnan!"  
"No, Olivier. He died by his own hand...and believe me, I had nothing to do with it. I doubt you did either, as apparently you weren't even there for him. I suppose an important mission for the Crown was the reason...or perhaps you could not accept what had happened to him. Perhaps you asked for that mission in order to avoid seeing how broken he was. After all, you never liked to have to face up to your failures. But d'Artagnan wasn't Thomas...he was far better. I am very sorry he's dead."

"Why is he in Hell?" he whispered.

"Let me think for a moment. Perhaps he killed someone? Maybe he slept with a married woman? Despite what you may think, it is really not so difficult to end up here. So don't worry...you'll meet all your brothers here. I am quite sure of it."

He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to slap her. But she was right...and that was the worst thing of all.

So he left. He left her and d'Artagnan. He ran away from them.  
From the woman whom had he loved and whom had he condemned to death.  
And from the man who had been his brother and whom he had left to die alone.  
The man whom he also had condemned to death by leaving him in Paris...not once, but twice.

Fire.  
Fire was consuming his soul.  
It would do so for all eternity.  
He ran through the thick ashes.  
Those ashes were all that was left of his land and his people.  
The ashes were like silk. Like her skin.  
The skin of their child would have been exactly the same. So delicate.

There was a constant murmur. A sound difficult to recognize.  
It might be a very distant voice.  
Athos was surprised to find that Hell was actually a very silent place. He did not hear the screams of the tortured. The only sound above the low murmur was the whisper of the flames which licked at his skin, leaving burning wounds in their wake.

Suddenly, the pain intensified. He could not refrain from screaming, but something was wrong. Although he was sure he had cried out loudly, he only heard a soft whimper.  
Perhaps that was the reason for the silence.

He was standing in front of the gallows.  
He realized with dread that he knew the person who had been hung.  
He lunged towards the body, although he knew the man had been dead for a few hours. He gently laid Aramis' body on the ground. The Spaniard stared at him with lifeless eyes.

"Don't look at me that way!" the Spaniard gasped, his lips blue. "I was not executed because of…"  
Athos understood. He knelt next to his friend, and took Aramis' hand into his own. Usually dead people do not talk. They were obviously all dead, so that explained why they could have this conversation. God… Aramis was dead. Aramis was in Hell...with him. It meant that he had not lost him.

"So why you were you hung?"  
"Allancourt accused me of killing Christine," he replied slowly. "And you well know… it was you who killed her."  
"Whom?! Christine?!"  
"No… not Christine. Robert de Garantelle."  
"Yes, I killed him. He was guilty of plotting against the King."  
"His wife… there was his wife also."  
"Yes… she was arrested...and she committed suicide before the trial. Marguerite de Garantelle."

Marguerite de Garantelle. Marguerite… There was something so important about her, but he could not remember it now.

The explosion of pain and fire consumed him. Then there was nothing-only the murmur in the orange-tinted darkness. It became louder.

It was definitely a voice. Someone was pleading with him desperately. He tried to concentrate on the words, because he only could make out emotions... worry, fear and love.

Athos. Someone was pleading with a person named Athos. Why did this Athos not respond? There was so much pain and determination in the voice. It was a pity that Athos could not hear it... because it was impossible to believe that a man could hear such an anguished voice and not answer.

Breathing became more and more challenging. From to time, he managed to skip a breath or two. It gave him a few seconds of relief – less of a sensation of fire in his lungs.

The voice sounded familiar. He felt very sorry for that person, but he could do nothing to help. He realized that it was becoming easier and easier not to breathe in the fire. That was good-but the relief was short-lived. Something had changed. He had no idea what, but suddenly he had to inhale. It was such a strange feeling. There was a kind of rhythm, and he started to respond to it.

"Athos." A whisper. That name started to sound familiar. He had the vague impression that someone was crying nearby.

And then there was a kind of order. He knew he had been given an order, but he could not follow it, as he was really did not know what he was supposed to do in this situation. Was he dead? Or was he dying? The very thought made him uneasy.

A few drops of something cool trickled into his mouth. He did not have the strength to move his tongue towards the moisture.

"Athos, you must fight! I order you to fight!" The voice was gruff... and familiar.  
"Athos don't leave us!" A broken sob from another person.  
"Athos… please… stay with us… you're our leader! We would be lost without you. We need you, brother!"

Oh God! This Athos apparently had no sense of duty towards either his superior or his brothers. He definitely deserved to be punished.

But still... the name was so disturbingly familiar.

"Breathe! Please breathe! Athos! Don't do this to me! Don't die on me!"

It seemed that he had stopped breathing. It was odd that he only realized it because of those words. Something was wrong. What if he was this Athos? No, that was impossible. He was not so loved. No one would mourn him.

Something forced him to inhale. What was going on?! He must have opened his eyes, because now he was staring at the very pale face of a dark haired man. The man looked seriously ill. His eyes were full of tears, and he was holding him in an awkward way. And he was talking to this Athos. There was something familiar in his face, but his name was a mystery...as was the name of the sobbing boy who held his hand close to his face.

"Athos? Athos?" A soft whimper.

Sorry, I have no idea who are you calling, he thought with fatigue. He closed his eyes, and felt cold tears on his cheek. He was very sorry, but there was nothing he could do to help them.


	31. Chapter 31

Aramis

He looked into his brother's blue eyes, praying for any sign of recognition. However, he saw none, and Athos closed his eyes. Aramis changed the cold cloth on his forehead, then bowed his head, fighting the tears. Unsuccessfully.

Athos was dying.  
It did not matter how much the Spaniard wanted to deny it. He had done everything he could-or even more. He knew that some of his methods-such as breathing for his brother-could have been questioned. After all, the Turkish envoy who had mentioned the technique to him once had not really known much about it.

Aramis absentmindedly stroked Athos' hair. The way his leader leaned into his touch shattered him further.  
"Athos… please..." he whispered. He closed his eyes, desperately fighting to regain control of himself.

"We need to change the sheet. It's already too warm," he muttered. The medic lowered his eyes, not wanting to see the questions in the eyes of the others. He traded places with the Captain in order to take care of the wound. He cleaned it once more, then put another layer of the prepared mixture on it.

"How is it?" Tréville had to know.  
"Bad," he replied, not looking at his commanding officer.

He felt Porthos' hand awkwardly touching his arm. He knew that the big man was trying to comfort him, but how could he find any comfort if Athos died?!

"Aramis…?" D'Artagnan's voice sounded so small.  
"Have hope…"

He had woken the boy a few hours earlier, and had told him that Athos needed him. The Gascon had obeyed the summons, and was half sitting/half lying, holding his mentor's hand despite his own injuries. Aramis thought that he would have been proud of his little brother, if only he could have felt anything else other than fear for Athos' life.

He dressed the wound, and came back to his place, supporting Athos in the hope that it would aid his breathing. His eyes met Tréville's gaze. He flinched, and immediately lowered his eyes. He could not stand to see the trust on his Captain's face. He knew that their commanding officer was very fond of Athos, and he hated that could not give him hope. He did not feel any, and he in fact believed there was none left.

He tried to pray, but the words were suddenly strange to him. He recited parts of prayers for both health and salvation. As long as he prayed for Athos, it was working.

He focused on Athos' breathing, and tried hard to forget that he might be witnessing the last breaths of his friend.

"Aramis?" The Gascon showed a hint of his usual stubbornness on his face.  
"Yes?" he replied, unconsciously pulling Athos closer to him. It was not difficult, as the wounded musketeer seemed to seek the comparative chill of Aramis' skin. Although the Spaniard had a fever himself, his body seemed cold in comparison to the comte's.

"I… am sorry that…"  
"We will talk later," he said sharply. Please, I cannot focus on anyone other than Athos right now, and you deserve all my attention. There is so much I must tell you, he thought desperately.

"Promise?" asked d'Artagnan.  
"I promise," he replied quietly. He meant it. However, if… No! There was no "if"!

Athos moaned softly. His breaths came as short, shallow, gasps.  
"Athos?" Aramis continued his monologue of pleas intertwined with prayers. He took up a cup of fresh brew that Louise had prepared. He tried to coax Athos to take a few sips, but he was less than satisfied with the outcome.

He lost track of time.  
Change the poultice.  
Change the wet sheet.  
Whispered pleas and prayers.

He traded again positions with the Captain. He could see the raw panic in the older man's eyes when Athos' breath hitched.

"Athos! Breathe!" he cried desperately, his voice trailing off as his friend opened his eyes. They were so blue. Aramis began to suspect his leader might be seeing a glimpse of paradise.

"A'mis," he whispered. He obviously wanted to say more. but did not have the strength to do so.  
"I am here. I am here for you," whispered the medic fervently. "Everyone is alive, and will be fine", he added hastily, feeling Athos' intense gaze.

Athos closed his eyes, and relaxed against the Spaniard.

 **Riversidewren, part II of the gift for you.**

 **I have used here the result of Buckeye01's research about ancient medicine. Thank you!**

 **I promise you more d'Artagnan in next chapter.**


	32. Chapter 32

D'Artagnan

He buried his face in Athos' palm. He could not accept that his mentor might be taking his last breaths. His mentor?

No. Athos would not be his mentor anymore. It was clear. He had to leave the musketeers. He was not worthy to remain in their ranks. Why had Aramis wanted him, of all people, to be at Athos' side? The answer was simple – the medic seemed to believe that d'Artagnan's presence might just save their leader.

A few months ago, the Gascon would have agreed. But now?  
Now, he was wallowing in his own pain instead of praying for Athos' life. He dimly realized that Aramis' prayers were shorter than usual. Aramis had lost his faith. Why was he surprised? After all, Flea had laid it out for him...Aramis' only reason to even pretend to want to live was his brothers.

Flea had also made it clear that he could not kill himself. He would have to change his plan. He would have to find a Red Guard-or two-ready for a fight. He thought vaguely that he should be grateful to her for inadvertently giving him the idea. It would be easy to find a group of Red Guards. However, they were in Paris... and he was here. He had wanted more than anything to die here from his injuries. Was even the possibility of dying in his friends' arms being denied to him? He knew he did not deserve such a hero's death, but still...he had hoped. He had hoped to feel Athos' touch and hear his voice in his last moments. And now it was his mentor who was dying, not him. Athos had been wounded during the fight to save him. God… Athos would be dead because of him!

D'Artagnan could not suppress his sobs. It was so unjust!

Suddenly, he realized that Athos' hand, now wet from his tears, was cooler than it had been. So it had happened...he had lost him. He had lost his friend, his mentor, his older brother. He had lost everyone. He was determined now that no one would stop him. He would follow Athos. It was all his fault…

"D'Artagnan?", he felt a hand on his arm, and he recoiled. Ashamed, he glanced at Tréville, then immediately lowered his gaze.

"My apologies, Sir," he whispered.  
"D'Artagnan! Athos' fever has broken!"

The Gascon looked at his mentor, who was cradled in Aramis' arms. The medic was smiling. It was a strange smile – genuine, but never reaching his eyes. It was a smile of utter relief-not one of joy.

"We must change his clothes to dry ones," stated the Spaniard practically.  
"I'll do it," offered Tréville, eyeing Aramis. "You should change yourself. The last thing you need is to catch a cold." The medic nodded, and spread out a cloak on the floor. They moved Athos onto it, then began to change him into dry clothes.

D'Artagnan could not bear seeing the lieutenant like this. Athos was normally so strong...so confident. Now he was very pale, and looked incredibly fragile. D'Artagnan knew that he had only himself to blame. His reverie was cut short by an astonished shout. He lifted his head and saw Aramis collapse. The Captain caught the medic, and gently lowered him onto a pallet.

"We need to take care of his injuries," declared Louise. "Monsieur d'Artagnan, can you help me…?"  
"Of course," whispered the Gascon. He did not want to think about how Aramis would react if he regained consciousness and felt himself being touched by someone other than his closest brothers. He was quite sure that if he were in such a situation himself, he would panic.

The Captain did not protest.  
"Is he unconscious because of his head wound?" the Gascon asked Louise, guilt consuming him.  
"I cannot be sure. It is possible," replied Louise. "However, I think it is more likely a result of the combined effects of his injuries and exhaustion."

So perhaps he had in fact not killed his brother… He found himself staring at Aramis' wounds.  
"Is it bad?" he asked softly.  
"Slightly infected. Definitely not ideal in his weakened condition, but I hope we will manage to cure the infection."

Aramis moaned softly.  
"Shh, it's okay...I just have to dress your wound. You're going to be fine," murmured Louise in a soothing voice, gently stroking his hair. "I do need you for you to drink my healing tea." She motioned to d'Artagnan to hand her a cup. He sat Aramis up a bit, supporting his weight, and Louise helped him to drink. He drained the cup greedily. She smiled, and poured another one.

Aramis drank it, then opened his eyes.  
"At's?" he mumbled questioningly.  
"He is resting. He'll be fine. You should sleep."

Aramis did not protest when he was laid down next to Porthos.

D'Artagnan was envious of their bond. Porthos did not reject the Spaniard. Or perhaps he did, and the medic was just taking advantage of the fact that his brother was asleep? The Gascon held his breath when Porthos opened his eyes. He felt so sorry for Aramis, because he knew what would come next – the big man would recoil from his damaged, filthy ex-brother. It was bound to happen.

The boy gasped, amazed when Porthos put his arms around Aramis. There was no mistaking the fond smile on the dark skinned musketeer's face.

How could he bear to be near Aramis?  
He wanted so badly to still be a part of their brotherhood.  
But he was no longer one of them. He could never be again.

He curled up near Athos. He hoped that he would wake up before his mentor, and thus have a chance to leave without anyone noticing him.

When he woke up, the only sound he heard was the quiet sound of breathing. The others were still fast asleep.

D'Artagnan sat up carefully. He needed to get out of that crowded room. He stood up, and quietly gathered his weapons. The thought of being captured once more made him feel physically ill. He managed to slip out without waking anyone up.

It was already light. The pale November sun shone directly on the little porch. He knew there were guards posted somewhere, and he guessed that it would not so simple to leave. Moreover, he was not even sure that he wanted to leave. What if Allancourt's men were nearby? He was afraid-and he hated himself for that.

He felt incredibly weak, and decided to sit on the porch in the sun for a moment. He should have worked harder to find a way to quietly disappear from their lives without subjecting them to the pain of his all too obvious suicide.

"Hello." A soft voice came from behind him. Startled, he pivoted, and aimed his pistol at the speaker. His hand trembled, and Aramis stared at the barrel, which was aimed directly at his chest.

"Sorry…. You surprised me," mumbled d'Artagnan, lowering his weapon in a flash. "God… I wanted to apologize for shooting you, and what do I do? Immediately try to kill you again."

"You have good reflexes. After all, you had no way of knowing who I was."  
"Aramis… when I shot you… I saw one of them… the one with dark hair," he whispered. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to tell Aramis the truth. He could not look at his friend without remembering all that had happened. The images in his mind were as real as when the events had occurred. The Gascon took a few steps, then dropped to his knees and vomited. He was vaguely aware that Aramis was supporting him, and he leaned into his touch.

"I can't…I can't do it!" he sobbed. "I am not as strong as you… there's no one to anchor me… I have no choice-I must leave!"  
"You know that Athos will never abandon you. He will help you when he feels better."  
"No! It will never work. I have failed him-failed all of you- so completely… I have to disappear from your lives… I can't stay… I can't! All I wanted...was to die in his arms… I did not want to survive…"

He could feel a hesitant touch on his hair. His stomach turned. It was true! Aramis could barely stand to touch him.

"You don't have to try to save me…" he whispered brokenly. "I just want to die… but Flea told me that my suicide would devastate you. Is that true?"

"It would finish off Athos," the Spaniard replied gravely. "D'Artagnan… I was once on the other side. I mean... I once tried to help a musketeer… who had been abused in a similar way. We were not close friends, but… I liked him. And all I wanted was to help. Nothing in him rejected me. He only wanted me to forgive him, but I could not see his guilt. I have to tell you that when Athos told me that he accepted me, in spite of everything that happened… I knew for a fact that he was telling me the truth, but still... I could not bring myself to believe it."

He objectively understood what Aramis was trying to tell him. He had not gone through something similar, but his words made sense. However, he found that it did not help him. He felt so... broken... as if he was beyond any help. He truly did not want to hurt Athos, but he had no idea how he would go on living. He finally found the courage to glance up at Aramis' face.

"How have you managed to cope?" he asked softly.  
"I was busy searching for you. And then… the wounded needed me. It was easy to keep myself busy."  
"And now?"  
"The wounded have Louise to take care of them… but… as long as they don't reject me, I have to try to keep going… for them." He sighed heavily, and covered his face with his hands.  
D'Artagnan remained silent, staring at his brother.  
The Aramis he knew was dead. He had died when they…  
They had basically killed him. Slowly, very slowly, they had destroyed him bit by bit. The Gascon was all too painfully aware that he had lost his joyful, mischievous brother. The man he saw before him now was just the remains of a tortured prisoner...a man devoid of any hope or faith...bereft of any dignity, joy, or love. His only worth was in his medical or martial skills.

D'Artagnan had no medical knowledge. So even less was left of him. He wanted to run away, but there was no place for him to hide.

The door was wrenched open, and Tréville bolted outside.  
"Ah, there you are!" He seemed relieved, but was clearly worried. "Aramis, Athos needs you."  
Aramis stood up in one swift motion, and then he swayed. D'Artagnan managed to catch him, breaking his fall.

"ARAMIS!" the Gascon cried. "You can't die! NOOO!" D'Artagnan wanted so desperately to be the one who was unconscious...the lucky one dying in his friend's arms…

Tréville knelt near them.

 **Riversidewren, thank you! Thank you for reading and reviewing. DebbieF, some d'Artagnan for you!**


	33. Chapter 33

Louise

After Athos' fever had broken in the small hours of the morning, they all fell asleep except for the guards who were stationed outside. She slept holding Athos' hand in her own, her fingers on his pulse. She knew from grim experience that she would wake up if…

But it was Aramis, not Athos, who woke her by reciting a litany of pleas in an unfamiliar language. She tried first to soothe him, with no success. Finally, she decided to wake him up. As he stared at her, she could barely stand the raw despair in his eyes. Without a second thought, she pulled him into her arms. He was shivering. After a while, he pulled away.

"I need some fresh air," he mumbled apologetically.  
"Very well," she replied. "But first, you must promise me you won't do anything stupid...and the one rule is that you have to go by my definition of stupid things, not yours."

He reluctantly nodded his assent. Louise made sure that he was dressed warmly before he went outside. She checked on him a few times, but as he remained sitting on the porch, she decided to leave him alone.

She returned to her place next to Athos. The wounded musketeer was sleeping peacefully. It seemed as if he was finally on the mend. Her respect for Aramis' skills only increased. She begin to wish that she had a daughter that was of a suitable age to marry the musketeer. What she would give to have that outstanding medic in her family!

She did not protest when d'Artagnan went outside. She knew he needed to talk with Aramis, and it was essential that they have that conversation in private.

"Aramis?" A hoarse whisper caught her attention, and she bent over Athos.  
"I'll call him. Are you in pain?"  
"Mis!" he repeated, struggling to sit up.  
"Give me a moment!" she pleaded, unsure what was happening, "He is outside. I'll have to get him."

"Outside?!" Tréville looked at her, shocked.  
"Yes, he's outside with d'Artagnan. I would appreciate it if you could go get him, Captain. I need to give some of my brew to Athos."

The Captain nodded and went outside. She was reaching for the cup when she heard d'Artagnan's desperate cry.  
"Stay put!" she growled at Athos and Porthos, then ran to the door.

Her heart sank when she saw Aramis lying limp in d'Artagnan's arms. The boy was crying. Their captain was kneeling near them, his hand supporting Aramis' neck. The Spaniard seemed to be coming round, but she was worried about his condition. She prayed that the long sleep had helped him.

"Sorry," the marksman mumbled. "I just got up too quickly." He sat up, carefully supported by a very pale d'Artagnan.  
"If you are able to stand, I'd prefer that you come inside with me, as it probably would not take a long time for your brothers to get to you out here."

Aramis nodded slowly, then allowed Louise to steady him as he took a few steps.

She helped him inside, scowling at Porthos when he met them at the door.

"I thought I told you not to get up!" she hissed, her eyes flashing angrily. "Why can't you just lie down like you are supposed to?! I can't deal with both of you at the same time!"

"I can manage alone," declared Aramis, as he began to sway slightly. She sighed, unsure what to do. She was trying to figure out which of the two men was most likely to collapse first when Flea came to help her. Although the small woman would never be able to carry Porthos, she was able to offer him some support as he limped across the room. Fortunately, they reached his pallet safely.

"How is he?" asked Porthos quietly, gesturing towards Aramis.  
"I'll check on him later," Louise replied, keeping her voice low. She began to fear for Aramis. What if he had just given up?

As the Spaniard sat down next to Athos, the other man grasped his hand firmly.  
"Aramis," he murmured. Louise saw a storm of emotions in his blue eyes. The medic met his gaze, and there was a kind of silent communication between the two of them. Then Athos reached for his other hand, and pulled Aramis closer to him.

"I owe you my life. I am grateful." He closed his eyes for a moment. Sleep started to claim his body, but he resisted.

"Aramis, I need your help."  
"What can I do for you? Are you thirsty? How do you feel?" The Spaniard was anxious to fulfill any request his brother might have. Louise smiled to herself as she heard the eagerness in his voice.

A smirk ghosted across Athos' lips.  
"Yes, Aramis... I definitely asked you to come over here because I urgently need you to give me a cup of water," he said dryly. "No… I need your help with d'Artagnan. I am not in good enough condition to take care of him. I need one or two more days."

Louise knew that Athos wanted to keep Aramis busy, although he was indeed too weak to do anything other than sleep. Even their short talk had exhausted what little energy he had.

He entwined his fingers with Aramis'. Louise realized with astonishment that Athos actually needed Aramis' presence. She could see that the Spaniard was surprised-and worried-by this. He touched his hand to Athos' forehead, checking for a fever. He found none, and sighed with relief.

The Spaniard lay down, careful to keep contact with his brother.  
"This is...not typical for him," he said softly.  
"Well, even the most stoic of musketeers might need some reassurance after coming so close to death," she stated dryly.

The medic started to reply, but his attention was drawn away by Tréville entering the house.  
"D'Artagnan?" he asked, looking at his Captain questioningly.  
"I'll give him some time. He wanted to resign."  
"And?"  
"I turned him down. Aramis, did he really shoot you?"  
"Yes...but he was drugged and delirious. When I came near him, he saw not my face, but the face of one of our captors. His real intention was to kill himself."

Oh, God! d'Artagnan had wanted to kill himself! Louise was shocked.  
"And you left him alone, Captain, with the weapon he took?!"  
"Madam, I don't think it would be the best idea to take away his weapon right now. He would feel more vulnerable if he had no means of defending himself. Aramis, tell me…" his voice trailed off when he realized that the Spaniard was asleep.

Louise cursed herself for not feeding the medic before he drowsed off. She checked his temperature. It was climbing.  
"Aramis?" she murmured gently. "I need to change your bandages."  
"Cold," he whispered, without opening his eyes.  
"I know you are cold, but you have a fever. I have to check your wounds now." She gently stroked his hair, well aware that Porthos was watching her every move. She felt as if she was being observed by a predator.

She turned to the Captain. "Monsieur, can you please boil some water and bring it here?" He  
nodded, and went to the hearth.

The door opened, and d'Artagnan entered. He glanced at Aramis, his eyes full of pain.

"Come here, d'Artagnan," Louise said gently.  
"Is he dying? Have I killed him?!" the boy asked fearfully, his eyes full of tears.  
"No, he is alive. Calm down. He has a fever and he needs rest...and food. The same goes for you."

She smiled gratefully when Pierre came in with a tray of food.  
"Now, you need to eat," she ordered d'Artagnan.  
"It's rabbit stew! I just went on a hunt and caught a few rabbits... it's really fresh and good!" Pierre said enthusiastically.

D'Artagnan shook his head.  
"I.. am not hungry."  
"Are you nauseous?" asked Louise, her eyes full of worry.  
The Gascon nodded reluctantly.

"Madame… the brew Aramis made for me was a good cure for nausea," muttered Porthos. Aramis gave her the list of ingredients without even opening his eyes.  
"I'll make some...later. First, I need to take care of Aramis," Louise declared.

She changed the bandages. She had thought that the wounds would look much worse. She was not sure now that the fever was due to them after all. However, she put on a fresh poultice, deciding that it would only help. Then she coaxed Aramis into eating some stew. It seemed as if he was actually hungry, but after a few spoons, he had clearly had enough. He must have been starved, she realized, feeling sick. She gave him some of her healing tea, mixed with a lot of honey. He drank it without protest.

When she finished taking care of him, she looked at d'Artagnan, and her heart sank. The boy was curled up on his pallet. Porthos was talking to him quietly, but the Gascon's gaze was fixed on Athos' hand, which was still tightly grasping Aramis'. His eyes were full of despair.

 **Special thanks to Riversidewren.**


	34. Chapter 34

D'Artagnan

He had been left alone. He glanced at the door behind which the Captain had disappeared. Part of him felt relieved, to be sure. However, another part of him wanted to scream- to beg-not be left alone.

Why had Tréville refused to accept his resignation? He had been brutally honest, admitting that he had shot Aramis. He had told the Captain that he was a dangerous threat, one best removed from his brothers. However, the only reply he had gotten was a growing sadness in Tréville's eyes. D'Artagnan was more certain than ever that he needed to leave. Now. He did not think that he could stand to wait until he was once again on the dark streets of Paris, which were always full of the Musketeers' enemies.

Aramis had told him many times that burns are prone to infection. He unwrapped one of the healing burns on his hand. Unfortunately for him, it was healing very well. He braced himself, then dug his nails into the wound. It hurt like hell, but he easily removed the thin layer of healing skin. He smeared mud on his hand, then closed his eyes as the pain took hold of him. He rubbed the mud into the injury, knowing that he would have to rinse it off afterwards. No one could be allowed to suspect that he had purposely allowed the wound to get infected.

After several minutes, he went to the well. He started to wash his hand, then abruptly decided to wash his whole body in the freezing water. The cold gave him some relief. He was not so naïve as to think that he could get rid of all the filth, but he still felt somewhat cleaner.

He decided to return to the house, although he had no idea why he wanted to. When he entered the main room, he stood frozen for a moment, staring at Aramis, who was curled up at Athos' side, tightly holding his hand. They obviously needed each other. Such an open display of closeness made him miss their brotherhood even more.

However, he had not been invited to take part. He huddled under a blanket on his pallet. He knew that Porthos was talking to him, but he could not focus on the meaning of on his words. All he wanted was to hear Athos' voice... to hear words of forgiveness from his mentor-or rather, his former mentor.

He pretended to be asleep, and perhaps he did actually doze off for a bit. However, now he was lying awake in the darkness. He felt so alone. It seemed as if everyone else in the little ruined house was asleep. In the dim light of a candle that was still burning, he could see Athos and Aramis huddled around Porthos, who was lying on a cloak on the floor. They were truly Inseparables. There was no place for him. His only option was to leave, and to find death in such a way that they would never guess that it had been self-inflicted. He was almost at the door when he heard the Captain's voice.

"Be back as quick as you can. The rain is heavy."  
So he could not disappear tonight. He returned to his pallet, and curled up under the blanket. He must have fallen asleep, as he woke up slowly, hearing the threads of a nearby conversation.

"Perhaps we should take Pierre with us...after all, he really knows to cook. That is a gift that is not to be spoiled!" Porthos' voice was teasing.

"You're just hungry. That's the only reason you want to take him along!' There was an audible smile in Flea's voice.

"It's a wonderful stew!" replied Porthos indignantly.

"You are well aware that adding herbs to meat usually makes it taste better," commented Louise with a grin. "If you are ready to have this argument, you must really be feeling better."

"Not true! I am starving! This has nothing to do with feeling better!" he protested.  
"So, apparently I will be going hunting today," commented Pierre with a merry smile.

D'Artagnan buried his face in the blanket, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him. His mind was made up. He would leave. Definitely. Flea was wrong. They did not need him. He would only be a burden.

"D'Artagnan?" He heard Porthos' deep voice. "You need to wake up, boy. You should eat something."  
He decided that it would be better to talk to Porthos instead of making the big man wake him up.

"I am not hungry," he answered quietly, but he sat up on his bedroll and glanced at Porthos. The musketeer smiled at him.  
"You need to eat if you want to regain your strength!"

What if I don't want to?  
He could feel the painful throbbing of his hand. It gave him hope. However, he was afraid that Aramis would save him. He looked at the marksman, and felt suddenly sick. The Spaniard was dead. His face was deathly grey. How could Athos not realize it?

But it was not Athos at the Spaniard's side. Allancourt's man grinned at d'Artagnan. The boy recoiled, and hit the wall, desperate to get away.

They were shouting at him. His fingers found the knife.  
Someone held him. He could feel the smell of blood, sweat, and powder.  
A voice was whispering something gently.  
Aramis' voice?

But Aramis was dead…

No, he could not risk harming Aramis!  
But if he killed the medic, his own death would come quickly by the hands of the others...  
No!

He could not hurt his brother.  
But if it was not him?  
He would be free.  
In either situation, he would be free.  
He felt someone's hand on his fingers, gripping the hilt of his knife.

"Let me die!" he whispered.  
"Never!" The voice sounded like Aramis.  
"I just want to die with you by my side. Can you not show me this one mercy?"  
"No, d'Artagnan! You're safe. We're safe…"  
"We're dead…" he whispered. "I am dead… everything inside me is dead…"  
How Aramis could touch him?!  
He had seen everything!

"D'Artagnan?" The voice was weak. Athos was calling him. It would be their last talk.

Aramis let him go, and d'Artagnan went to Athos' side.  
"I've failed you. I have been the most ungrateful… protégé ever. I will leave you."  
Athos grasped his hand.  
"Look at me, D'Artagnan!" he ordered.

Timidly, he met the blue eyes of his leader.  
"You are our brother. Remember? One for all…" Athos covered his hand with his own.  
"And all for one!" finished Porthos, his hand placed on top of Aramis'. The other musketeers in the house saluted them.

Not any more… I don't belong here. Yes, one for all… that's exactly why I must leave, thought d'Artagnan.

 **A/N**

 **I am leaving on Friday night for two weeks holiday. I'll try to post something during this time (maybe I'll manage before my departure) however as I spend the first week on karatedo training camp - I don't believe I'll have time or energy to do it. And the second week I've promised to my friends to tell them the story about the fates of their vampires in the Dark Ages, so… I cannot promise you much. But don't worry I have many ideas. (OK, our boys should worry because of that.)**

 **It also mean that I may have an awful delay in reviewing your stories.**

 **Thank you for reading and for all your comments. They mean a lot to me!**

 **Riversidewren, thank you for everything!**


	35. Chapter 35

Athos

Finally, he was once more on horseback. It was quite a painful experience, but he insisted on riding back to Epi-sur-Esonne. They were short of everything – food and herb were scarce, as well as feed for their horses. He glanced at Porthos. The big man's dark skin was uncharacteristically pale, and his eyes were focused on Aramis. The Spaniard was still running a low fever.

However, Athos was most worried about d'Artagnan. The Gascon was quiet-too quiet. He spent most of his time either sleeping or pretending to sleep. They had tried to coax him to eat, but the boy seemed unable to keep anything down. Both Aramis and Louise were sure that the problem was mental, not physical.

"Athos, do you remember Robert de Garantelle's case?" Treville asked in a low voice. As the Captain maneuvered his horse next to his lieutenant, Athos closed his eyes for a moment.

He remembered much from his dreams, and recalled that name. He had mentioned des Garantelles in his talk with Aramis. The talk from hell.

Aramis… Suddenly he was aware that he had asked the Spaniard to tell him about the details of his torment. He just was not sure exactly how he had phrased the question.

 _"Like a shell… like nothing is left. The helplessness is overwhelming...and the humiliation is complete."_ That had been Aramis' answer.

Why did he ask it?  
D'Artagnan. The look in his eyes.  
Thomas.  
Anne.  
Their child…

"Athos?" Tréville's voice demanded his attention. "What's wrong?" There was concern in his words.  
"Nothing. I'm fine," his lieutenant replied automatically.  
"Athos, Robert de Garantelle was married to Marguerite Allancourt, the Comte's sister."  
"The woman who committed suicide in prison…"  
"Yes. Allancourt is seeking vengeance on the musketeers for her death."  
"But… everyone who was there is now dead...except for us," replied Athos slowly.  
"That's true."  
"So, are you telling me that he ordered the torture of Aramis and d'Artagnan because of us?!"  
"Yes," answered Tréville curtly.

Athos felt as if he could not breathe. He slumped in the saddle. but the pain in his back forced him to regain his posture.  
It was his fault.  
He was guilty of causing his brothers' suffering.

"Athos?" He felt a hand on his leg. He lifted his head to look into Aramis' eyes.  
"Aramis… I am so sorry…"  
"It is not your fault," the marksman replied firmly. "You did not kill her. You arrested her. It was your duty."  
"She would have been executed for treason anyway," added Tréville practically.

Athos did not answer. He gently put his hand on top of Aramis', just for a moment.  
"I am guessing… I was a difficult patient…" he said quietly.  
"As you always are," replied the Spaniard neutrally.  
"I said things."  
"As you always do when you have a fever."  
"Aramis… I…" How could he even begin to beg for forgiveness?! He had hurt his friend so badly!  
"I never pay attention to your delirious chatter, so I am not offended by some of the things you implied."

Athos glanced at the Spaniard's face, not really sure what his friend was referring to. He decided that he would bring up the topic again when they had the opportunity for a private talk.

The return journey took them three days, as they really were not in shape to travel. Athos was beyond grateful when they finally came in sight of the village. He would never admit that all he could think about was a comfortable bed.

"Louise convinced me that her village may be a better place for your recovery than Paris," the Captain said casually.

Athos felt a pang of dread. This place was far from any tavern with wine. He was certain that he needed some wine. No-to be precise, he actually needed many bottles of wine, especially because he could not reach d'Artagnan. The boy had simply refused to talk to him, answering questions only when given a direct order. The only person whom he seemed to accept was Aramis.

"Do you know how to help d'Artagnan?" Athos was aware that this was not the first time he had asked that question.  
The medic shook his head.  
"He feels he is unworthy to be one of us."  
"Do you feel the same way?"  
"Yes and no… When I think about it… I… know I am unworthy of your care and friendship. But… I am not enough strong to reject you. And… I made a promise to Porthos."  
"A promise?"  
"Yes. He survived the wound. Now it's my turn to survive."

 **I've managed to post it before leaving! Riversidewren, thank you.**


	36. Chapter 36

D'Artagnan

He felt miserable. He was tired, but could not find any rest. After they had arrived at Epi-sur-Esonne, Louise and Claire had checked on their injuries. The burn on his hand was slightly infected, but Louise assured him it was nothing to worry about. She put a poultice on it, then bandaged it up efficiently.

Her care had shattered the young Gascon. He had hoped that the infection was well on its way to killing him. But he had only succeeded in slowing the healing. He was determined to act decisively, but discreetly.

They had crossed the river on the way to the village. After recent heavy rains, the water level was high, and the current-strong. D'Artagnan could not stop thinking about how easy it might be to accomplish his goal.

He would leave a message that he was leaving to take shelter in a monastery. Then, he would just jump into the freezing water. The current would take his body far away from the village. The plan sounded promising. It could mean the end of his torment.

He realized that the other musketeers and the Captain had left. The Inseparables, tired after their journey and Louise's poking and probing, were fast asleep, as was Flea.

The young Gascon knew his body craved rest, but he was not sleepy. He laid silently in the darkness until he was sure all was quiet. Then he got up, picked up his weapon, and left. He was wearing only his shirt and breaches. The night was very cold and rainy. Dark clouds were gusting along with the wind, their wild dance covering the barely visible moon.

D'Artagnan knew that the bridge was guarded by musketeers. He decided to sneak out of the village and approach the bank of the river from below the bridge. The water was too quiet here. As he left the village, He suddenly felt nauseous, and was shivering from the cold. He regretted leaving the large, comfortable bed and the warm house. But there was no going back for him. There was no place for him in the regiment. He nearly sobbed, swaying for a moment before he found the support of the tree.

God! He was close to tears. He was so pathetic!

"D'Artagnan?"A voice came from behind him.

Athos!  
What was he doing here?! Had he spoiled everything?!

"I needed a walk," he answered, steeling himself as he turned to face his leader.  
"A rather long walk, don't you think?"  
Athos approached him.

Then a shot rang out. D'Artagnan heard Aramis scream, "Ambush!"

What was the Spaniard doing here?!

There was no time to think. They were surrounded by bandits, probably Allancourt's men. This was his chance to die. But he could not just die when he had put his brothers...or rather, his ex-brothers... in such danger.

He saw Aramis drop his empty pistol, then join the fight with his rapier. They fought against ten or more men. D'Artagnan prayed that the shots had been heard in the village.

He instinctively dodged a blade aimed at his heart, then pivoted and managed to parry another with his main gauche. It was then that a bullet hit him in the chest, and he fell. He heard Aramis shouting his name. Then the shout was abruptly cut off.

It was d'Artagnan's turn to scream when he saw Athos sway on his knees, then land face down in the mud. Then excruciating pain overwhelmed the young musketeer, and he desperately fought for air. It was pure agony, and he realized that his sight was darkening at the edges.

"Don't you dare die now, you scum!" He heard the scream from far away.  
He saw the bloodied bodies of his brothers.  
Brothers whom he had betrayed.  
It was his fault.  
His fault that they had been wounded.  
His fault that they had been captured.

He could not bear this knowledge.  
He screamed until someone's hand silenced him. The hand was swiftly replaced by a gag.

Suddenly, he realized he was in a room. He remembered nothing from the journey. He was alone with his captors. No… not alone. He could hear the relentless curses in Spanish.

Aramis…  
They would torture him.  
They will r*** him.  
Again and again.  
They would try to destroy him.  
And this time they will succeed.

And all was his fault.  
His fault alone.

Pain exploded in his chest. He smelled burning flesh.  
He was vaguely aware that Aramis was shouting something.

"Be nice! Or your friend dies."  
He heard the words through the fog of pain. He did not want to hear more. He just wanted to escape.  
Escape?  
His hand found a sharp object- perhaps a key or a sheathed knife-on the bandit's belt. He grasped it with his fingers, then pretended to have a seizure. The guard tried to immobilize him. D'Artagnan's strength faded, but he managed to hide the key before he was tied up once again.

He wanted to lose consciousness. He could not stand the sounds he was hearing, and could not bear to witness it again. He would not be humiliated.

"Aramis!" Athos cried out.

Oh God…  
Athos was here.  
He should not be here.  
He should not be touched.  
He should not have to witness it.

Athos will die.  
Proud Athos.  
His beloved mentor.

D'Artagnan wanted to cry, but he only managed to start choking on his gag.  
The darkness was so inviting.

He was a traitor.  
Perhaps he would finally manage to finish himself off.  
Finally.  
Before he inflicted more harm on his brothers.  
On his ex-brothers.  
On the people whom he had loved, when he had been capable of love.


	37. Chapter 37

Athos

Pain. Consciousness was inevitably connected to pain.  
He realized that his hands were bound. He secretly tried the knots on the rope, but to no avail. It seemed to have been done professionally.

He remembered Aramis' hand covering his mouth. The Spaniard had pointed to d'Artagnan, who was silently leaving the house. He remembered how they had followed their Gascon. He remembered the fight-the fight which they had obviously lost, as they were now captives.

Oh God! Aramis and d'Artagnan were once again captives! He refused to think about how it might destroy them.

"Athos!" He heard desperation in Aramis' voice. And then-there was d'Artagnan's scream.  
The former comte wanted to cover his ears. He could not bear to hear his protégé's distress.

"They've cauterized the bullet within the wound. When we get free, the bullet must be immediately taken out!" hissed Aramis.

He could trust their medic to always be thinking about wounds.

He did not like the urgency in the Spaniard's voice. It took him a while before he understood exactly what Aramis was talking about. To seal a bullet in the flesh meant to provoke a horribly painful infection, as the pus could not be expelled outside the body. D'Artagnan would die in terrible pain. Even Athos, with his limited medical knowledge, knew that.

"The boy is worth nothing to us. So be nice, Aramis... otherwise, your little friend is dead."  
"I need to tend to his wound properly."  
"It will cost you. But I suppose you like it, Spanish whore."

"Aramis, no…" Athos was not sure if his brother could hear him.

"Will you be nice to us, Aramis?"  
"Yes. But in return, you are going to give me the chance to take care of d'Artagnan's wound."  
"Agreed."

Athos stared at Aramis. The eyes met for a moment. In the marksman's brown orbs, Athos saw a plea. However, there was no time to think about what Aramis was asking for, as the captors took the medic to the middle of the room.

"One false move, and the boy dies," growled one of the bandits.

Athos felt so sick.  
He could not bear what he was witnessing.  
He averted his eyes, but could not escape from the sounds, which were killing him. Rage was building in his chest, nearly suffocating him.  
He wanted to kill Allancourt's men. He needed to kill Allancourt.

And then he met Aramis' empty gaze. He watched, terrified, as the last remains of life disappeared from those brown orbs. Aramis' soul was dying. His silent goodbye was all too tangible for Athos.

He wanted to scream.  
He wanted so badly to save his brothers.  
He could not breathe.  
The despair he felt could not be extinguished with any amount of alcohol.

"Stop it! Take me! Leave him in peace. I was the one who killed your master's sister!"

One of the bandits glanced at his direction, lazily fastening his breeches.  
"So it's about his sister." He shrugged. His eyes were slightly unfocused. Athos was well acquainted with that look, having seen it on Aramis' face multiple times. It always betrayed the Spaniard when they disturbed him and his lover. It only made Athos' rage more fierce.

"You are not really my type, musketeer." The bandit laughed at his own joke. Then something in Athos' eyes made him take a step back.

"We have our orders concerning you, Monsieur Athos. I'm sorry, but you will have to wait for your turn," he said, his tone official.

A soldier...or perhaps a courtier, thought Athos. A noble. He was suddenly sure of it.

"Athos?" He heard a whisper.  
D'Artagnan. He had prayed that the boy would stay unconscious for a longer period of time.  
"D'Artagnan?"  
He could not think of any platitude to offer. All he could do is to acknowledge that the Gascon was with them.

"Athos… I am so sorry… I never thought… O God… what have I done?!"  
"You have given away your friends," replied the bandit with a leering smile.  
"No! No! Do not listen to him, D'Artagnan! Look at me! It is not your fault! You did nothing wrong!"

"Yes… Your Spanish friend is so enjoying our reunion! Come… I'll help position you so you can watch more easily." He approached the boy, who stepped back, his back hitting the earthen wall.

Athos realized that they were in a dug out basement. Such a place might be missed by a search party. However, it also meant that there was no way to secure them to the wall. So when they were finally left alone, they might be able to move.

The search party… They could not be held too far away from Epi-sur-Esonne. He had been unconscious during the journey, but he was quite sure it had not been not longer than an hour or two.

Had the shots been heard in the village? Athos was not sure. They had to survive until Tréville found them. All their hopes were placed in their Captain...and in Pierre. The boy might know this place. He had not had the time to talk with his Captain about Pierre. He had been so naïve to think he had plenty of time!

D'Artagnan's whine made him focus on his little brother. The bandit changed the boy's position. Athos could see that the Gascon was shivering under his captor's hands.

He was afraid to say anything. What if the bandits used his words to torment his young protégé even further?!

They finally finished with the marksman.  
Aramis curled up on the ground, and began to vomit. The torture seemed endless. After several dry heaves, he crawled as far as the rope bound around his neck let him. The rope was tied to a stick buried in the wall. Athos thought they might be able remove it from the wall, given a chance.

"I thought you wanted to take care of your friend. I know now it was too much for you."

Aramis somewhat managed to lift himself onto his knees.  
"I need a knife, thread, and needle. Water and wine."  
"And do you really think you'll get them? Do you really think you deserve to get them?"  
"He deserved to kill you!" spat Athos.

"So pathetic…"  
"If you want more fun, you'll give me those things," replied Aramis, his voice strangely distant.  
"No! Aramis! What are you doing?" hissed d'Artagnan.  
"Trying to save your life!"  
"No! Just let me die! Don't sacrifice yourself for me! I beg you!"

Aramis closed his eyes in defeat.  
"I'm sorry, Aramis! Please… forgive me… Mis?"  
After a long silence, the medic replied, "Believe me, you don't want to die from that kind of infection."  
Athos scowled at him.

Aramis understood, and added softly, "There is nothing to forgive you for, D'Artagnan"

The bandit shoved the things Aramis had asked for over to the medic. The he knelt and took Aramis' right hand. He held it palm up as the other man poured boiling water over it. The marksman winced, and his eyes widened in despair. Then they took his other hand, and did exactly the same.

"Now you can dig out the bullet. But remember, one trick, and the boy is dead. And don't forget that you owe us-even if the boy dies."

Aramis looked at his burned hands. Athos could not tell how bad it was, but he saw that the medic was clearly in pain when he started to open the boy's shirt. Each move was agonizing for him.

Athos had to ask. "Aramis… are you able to do this?!"  
"If he is to have a fighting chance, I have to," whispered Aramis. He gently touched the cauterized skin, probing for the bullet, which was buried deeper than he had thought. It was clear it had not punctured the lung, but was situated too close to it for his liking.

"D'Artagnan, this will hurt..."  
"Kill me, Aramis! Kill me! If you ever called me your brother, do it now!" hissed d'Artagnan.

At this point, Athos felt he must intervene.  
"Save him, Aramis."  
He gave the order so as to spare his friend from having to make a choice, because he instinctively knew that Aramis was not sure which option was best for his little brother. But Athos knew what was the only option for him – and it meant keeping d'Artagnan alive.

He thought he would never forget the look of utter betrayal in d'Artagnan's eyes.

Aramis nodded slightly, then steadied his hands and made an incision. The boy tried to recoil from the pain. Athos knew that the medic needed some help to immobilize the wounded musketeer, but he refused to ask their captors for help.

"Please, d'Artagnan, stay still! Aramis wants to help you", he said, his voice soft.

God!  
He wanted to take the boy in his arms and tell him he was safe. He wanted to soothe him, promising that everything would be fine. He had done so many times before when Aramis had tended to the Gascon's wounds.

Aramis bit his lip so hard as he searched for the bullet that blood began to trickle from his mouth. Athos could not breathe as D'Artagnan screamed in agony, trying to escape the knife buried in his body. Aramis withdrew the blade and tried to soothe the boy, smearing the blood on his face. He was obviously afraid that if the Gascon struggled, more damage would be inflicted on his body. Finally, d'Artagnan went limp.

"Aramis…?" Athos could not finish his question.  
"He is still alive," whispered the medic, going back to his work.

Finally, he dug out the bullet and the bits of cloth that had been buried in the wound. The site bled heavily, and Athos stared at it with dread. The medic cleaned the wound meticulously, then started to stitch it up. Athos saw that every move tormented the Spaniard.

When Aramis finished, he collapsed near d'Artagnan.

The bandit shoved him away, then bound him. Then they left the musketeers alone.

Aramis was shivering badly, and Athos feared that his brother was going into shock.

"Aramis? Aramis?!" he whispered pleadingly.

He did not receive an answer. And from the place he where he was sitting, he could not even be sure that d'Artagnan was still breathing. He started to struggle against his bonds. Finally, the hook he was attached to pulled away from the dirt wall, and Athos managed to crawl over to his little brother. He desperately searched for any sign of life. When he finally found it, he sobbed with relief.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren!**


	38. Chapter 38

Aramis

He curled up in a ball. The walls he had built in his mind in order to perform surgery on his little brother were crashing down. The last dry heaves left him shivering, and feeling very vulnerable. He felt so defenseless. He was so helpless.

He had done everything to save his brother, but he was not sure if it had been enough. No, it was not enough! They were still captives! D'Artagnan was not safe, and what Aramis had done was too much for the marksman. There was nothing left he could offer to anyone. His whole body was in pain. He could not fight against the shivers, which only served to hurt him more.

Oh God! He understood so well d'Artagnan's desire to die. He wanted so badly not to feel anything. Not to remember anything. The darkness was luring him closer, and the marksman was ready to give up. But…

There was a voice.  
A desperate voice.  
A familiar voice.  
He focused on the words.

"Aramis, I need your help. Please, help me brother!"

Athos.  
The medic could not refuse to help him.  
He slowly lifted his head, and desperately fought another wave of nausea, the awful taste still in his mouth.

"Aramis? Are you with me?"  
The Spaniard nodded, too exhausted to say a word.  
"We have to escape. I need you to untie me. Are you able to do it?"

Aramis glanced at his burned hands. The blood was slowly trickling from damaged blisters. He waited as Athos positioned himself in such a way that the marksman could access his hands, which were tied behind his back. He then started to work on the knots.

The pain was nearly unbearable, but there was something cleansing in it. Finally, Athos' hands were free. He quickly dealt with the rope that bound Aramis. The medic watched his brother as he slowly approached the door and inspected its lock. It looked quite solid. The medic moved over to d'Artagnan in order to check on him. His forehead was slightly warmer than the Spaniard liked, and there was fresh blood on the makeshift bandage. Aramis sighed, then freed the limp Gascon.

"Mis?", the boy whimpered. "The key… under my belt."  
Aramis quickly ghosted his hands over his little brother, and his fingers found the object. He took it and called for Athos, as he was not sure if he would be able to stand.

"How?" whispered Athos, taking the precious key and staring at it.  
"Our Gascon is a true fighter," replied Aramis softly. He really wanted the boy to hear it.  
"We need horses. I'll take d'Artagnan."  
Aramis nodded. His leader tore a part of his shirt in order to give some protection to his injured hands. He accepted Athos' help in order to stand up, ignoring the obvious protest of his body and the trickle of blood down his legs.

Athos took his wounded protégé in his arms. Meanwhile, Aramis quietly opened the doors. They were in an old cave. There was a house nearby, visible in the fog. It was close to dusk. Aramis was amazed that so much time had passed since their fatal night walk.

He saw some movement on the left, and with relief realized that there were a few horses grazing. They had no saddles, but the musketeers decided to take their chances. They approached the animals slowly. Athos gave d'Artagnan to Aramis, then mounted, not without wincing.

"How bad are you hurt?" asked the medic.  
"A concussion and some bruises," replied Athos.  
"And…?" Aramis was sure there was more.  
"I guess my wound reopened after I was kicked," admitted his leader reluctantly.

Aramis tried to lift d'Artagnan in order to position him in front of Athos, but to no avail. He fell on his knees, still holding the wounded Gascon. Athos jumped off his mount. He managed to lift the boy onto the back of the horse. Then he waited for Aramis to secure their little brother before he mounted behind him.

Aramis took the other horse. After a second try, he managed somehow to lift himself onto her back, feeling as if his entire body was on fire. Fortunately, the animal followed Athos.

Aramis was vaguely aware that they were on a wooden bridge, the roiling waters of the Esonne beneath them. He heard Athos shouting a warning, then there was a shot. The bullet hit his horse. She whinnied in pain, then reared and lost her footing on the narrow bridge.

Aramis instinctively pushed away from the animal, fearing that he would find himself beneath her when they hit the water. He dimly heard Athos screaming his name. He had no chance in his weakened condition against the strong current of the frigid water. His strength was fading quickly, the darkness tempting him once again. He tried to keep his head above the water. The pain subsided to numbness. It was a good feeling. Everything became distant. It would be so easy to just let go.

He hit something with his side, and reflexively grasped it, managing to lift himself a little onto a fallen tree. He was still in the freezing river, but at least he did not need to fight to keep his head above water. He leaned his cheek into the rough bark.

He saw Isabelle's sweet face. Her eyes were full of tears, just as when she told him that she had lost their child. He had the impression that she was extending her hand to him. There was a promise of peace and of love. The offer of rest. It would be so easy to let go. After all, he had already felt dead when he had given himself to save d'Artagnan.

This time he was utterly destroyed, and could not find the strength to fight. Porthos, forgive me brother, he thought.

He could imagine the despair in his friend's eyes. Porthos' hands would desperately search for a sign of life, hoping that the fact that he found none was just a mistake. Then would come the grief when the big man would hold Aramis one last time in his arms. The medic had promised…

But everything had changed since then. The man Porthos had treated as his brother was already dead. Aramis hoped Athos understood that. He had tried to plead with his leader to let him go when d'Artagnan would be safe.

He felt that he was losing his grip on life.  
He had the impression that he heard his brother's voice, the low rumbling full of worry. God in His mercy had given the marksman the comfort in his last moments of feeling the warmth of his friend's hand on his face. He needed it so much.

He leaned into the warmth. He was so cold.  
"Mis, don't do this to us! You have to fight! How can we convince d'Artagnan to live when you have died for him? Aramis… your sacrifice was so selfless… but I have to ask you for more. Live, Aramis!" In his imagination, Athos' voice choked a little.

"René! I am waiting for you!" Isabelle was standing in the flourishing garden in front of the little house.

He was sitting in a boat, and the boat was slowly drifting towards the garden. Isabelle was smiling at him, her hand gently caressing her slightly swollen stomach. Swollen with pregnancy. With their child.

"Aramis! Please!" Porthos' voice was coming from the foggy shore. He was too far away now for the marksman to see him.  
"Aramis! Don't abandon us!"  
It was Athos.  
There was another gruff voice, too distant to discern the words.

"It is your choice, René d'Herblay-Aramis." He heard an unfamiliar voice, but could only see the winged silhouette above the water. "It is up to you. Decide."

Isabelle with flowers in her hair. Isabelle standing on the sunny river shore, her sweet voice calling him.

Porthos beating his lifeless chest, calling his name, again and again. His anger and despair.

The smell of lavender.  
The smell of Isabelle's hair.  
No bad memories.  
Love.  
Pureness.  
Joy.

The struggle for every day.  
The struggle with physical pain.  
The struggle with emotional emptiness.  
The struggle with self-hatred and shame.

"You promised me, Aramis!" Porthos cried  
"You promised to marry me, René." Isabelle tilted her head to look at him, the soft curves of her body under his hands.

The fear of touch.  
The fear of being abused.  
The fear of helplessness.

The fading life in d'Artagnan's eyes.  
The blood on his lips.  
The blood from the lung which he had damaged while digging out the bullet.

Athos' despair.  
Athos' grief.  
Athos' hatred.

Guilt.  
Pain.  
Shame.

Broken brotherhood.  
Love.  
Joy.  
Safety.

Broken brotherhood.  
Guilt.

"Not making a decision is the decision."

The reflection of the sun in the shallow water near the little beach.  
So close.  
The dark fog silencing the desperate cries of his brothers  
So distant.

Aramis breathed in the air, full of the scent of flowers, and made his decision.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	39. Chapter 39

Tréville

He had so hoped that his men would finally have some peaceful time in which to rest and recover. However, that hope died in his heart when a very worried Porthos came to him. The musketeer told his commander that his three brothers had disappeared, and had taken very few weapons with them. The Captain feared that Aramis and Athos had found d'Artagnan missing and had gone to search for him. The boy might have sneaked out in order to finish himself.

At first, the Captain wanted to wait for his men. However, he had a bad feeling about what might have happened, and decided to change his plans. He organized three search parties. His men were sure no one had crossed the bridge. Two parties would search along the river, and the third party would search the nearby forest.

Unfortunately, the rain had turned the ground into mud, and tracking was impossible.

Porthos decided to join one of the groups. Tréville did not like how pale the big man's face was. He was not sure if it was due to the fact that Porthos' wound was still healing...or if it was caused by fear for his brothers. He ordered the injured man to go with him, and Porthos reluctantly agreed.

They walked along a little trail that ran along the river. Mud seemed to be everywhere, even on the tree trunks. Tréville tried to figure out if this meant anything, but he was not a skilled tracker. Suddenly, he saw a fresh tear in the bark of a tree. His eyes followed the line of the damage, and found a bullet buried in the tree behind. He gave a sign for the group to halt.

The musketeers started to search the area. A moment later, the Captain heard a muffled cry from Porthos. He rushed over to him, and found the big man holding Aramis' pistol in his hands. It was covered by mud. Athos' and d'Artagnan's weapons were soon found hidden nearby.

"No... NO!" screamed Porthos.  
"Jansard!" The Captain's voice was firm, although he was sure that his heart had just stopped. "Go to the village, and ask Pierre to come here immediately. Then find the others, and inform them that we need to... find the place where our brothers have been imprisoned. Lead them here, and tell them to start searching the area."

Jansard acknowledged the order.  
"And Godspeed," added Captain.

"Don't move around too much," he ordered his men. "Maybe the boy will be able to track them if we don't disturb the area."

"We'll find them." He put his hand on Porthos' arm comfortingly.  
"They... how... how can they feel safe...?" whispered the musketeer, cradling the pistol of his beloved brother.  
"You will help them." There was no doubt in Tréville's voice.  
"We must find them. They…" he could not finish.

The Captain only nodded. He tried not to think about what the bandits might be doing to his men during the minutes they waited for Pierre to come. He hoped that the boy would be able to track the criminals. However, he knew his hope might be in vain.

Unfortunately, he was right. Pierre was able to tell which direction the horses had gone. However, he lost the trail several times. Each time, he was eventually able to pick it up again, but precious minutes were lost. The other musketeers met up with them, and the Captain decided that he would send them to search possible places where his men might be held. In the meantime, he, Porthos, and two other musketeers would follow the trail discovered by Pierre. Tréville looked up anxiously at the sky. There was not much daylight left. Several hours had passed since Porthos had announced his brothers were missing, and so much time had already been lost.

They heard distant shots, and hastily rushed in that direction. They nearly ran into a rider approaching them at a gallop. The Captain aimed his pistol at him. It took him several seconds to recognize his lieutenant as the haggard, bloodied man who was holding another man in his arms. His horse was not even saddled.

"Athos!" he called out. The musketeer pulled to a stop. His eyes were wild, and full of fear.  
"Aramis!" Athos shouted, his voice desperate. "He fell in the river! "Sir, take d'Artagnan to Louise. He has been shot, and is badly wounded. We must find Aramis."

Tréville saw how his lieutenant avoided Porthos' gaze, and guessed that his swordsman was also injured.

"No! You take care of d'Artagnan. Tannard will go with you. We will search for Aramis. Where did he fall?"  
"Not too far away-the bridge. His horse was shot, and they ended up in the water… I left him…"  
"Take care of d'Artagnan. That's an order!" The Captain said firmly. He could only hope that the boy could still be saved.

Athos bowed his head in acknowledgement, and rode away.

The evening was fast approaching when finally Tréville finally came in sight of the bridge. He decided that Porthos and Calbert would take one bank of the river, and he would search the opposite bank. He could only hope that Aramis had had enough strength to reach the shore. If not, his chance of surviving was close to nil.

It started to rain. The torch flame danced with the wind, then began to fade as drops of water hit it. With each passing minute, Tréville became more convinced that he would find only the lifeless body of his marksman. He passed a fallen tree lying on the shore, its branches immersed in the water. He suddenly felt an urge to cast one last glance at, and turned. He froze. Among the branches, there was a dark object that resembled a human. The Captain left his horse and made his way down the river bank, being careful not to slip in the mud.

Finally he reached the tree, and felt the cold stab of fear when he recognized the dark shape.  
"Aramis!" he cried, touching the man's cheek. It was deathly cold.

Tréville shot in the air to signal Porthos and Calbert, then started to work to free the unconscious musketeer. The Spaniard was limp, and frighteningly unresponsive. The Captain hunted for any sign of life. He found none on an initial survey, then decided not to any more waste time. If Aramis was alive, he needed to be warmed up quickly to have any chance of survival. Taking him as soon as possible to Epi-sur-Esonne seemed like the best idea. And if it was already too late… The Captain rejected that thought angrily. He checked for broken bones and bleeding wounds, and found nothing life threatening.

He picked up Aramis, and met Porthos on the bridge. He could not stand the look of fear on the dark-skinned musketeer's face.  
"Aramis?!"  
"We must take him to Madame Louise," replied Tréville, his voice rough with emotion.

When they reached Louise's house, the Captain stormed in, his precious burden in his arms. He gently lay down his marksman on the table, and the herbwoman was immediately at his side.

"Captain, how is he?" asked Athos, his expression grave.  
"I don't know," confessed Tréville, feeling ashamed of his lack of medical skill. He watched Louise as she checked on Aramis. The Spaniard looked dead. Porthos took the medic's hand in his own, and placed it against his cheek.

"Aramis! Please! Brother…" His voice was muffled by tears.

"Madame…?" Tréville needed to know. He could not bear the uncertainty any longer. He moved over to Porthos, fearing the musketeer's reaction if the news was bad.

"He is still alive-but just barely," she said finally. "I have a bath ready to warm him up. Monsieur Athos told me what happened."

Tréville watched with his heart in his throat as Louise, Athos, and Porthos worked on Aramis. They tried to raise his body temperature with warm water and stones that had been warmed on the hearth. However, the Captain got the feeling that Louise was not pleased with the effects of the treatment.

"Madame?" Porthos asked, his voice filled with fear. He was huddled against Aramis, and several blankets were wrapped around them. The heated stones were positioned around the marksman. Louise put a plaster on his chest in order to give him some extra warmth, and thus hopefully prevent pneumonia.

Louise took in a breath, aware that all eyes were on her, the musketeers holding their own breath as they waited for her answer.

"He has not received any mortal wound. And I do not think he drowned, as I can't hear water in his lungs. But he may be too far gone. I hope that Monsieur Porthos has been able to reach him, and has convinced him to fight."

Tréville smiled at the faith the healer had in his men and their bond. His smile faded when he saw Athos' face. His lieutenant looked shaken, and Tréville suddenly feared that Athos knew the reason why the Spaniard had not displayed his usual strong will to live.

"How is d'Artagnan?" he asked.  
"Aramis did a great job cleaning and stitching the wound. However, the burn may hinder the healing," replied Louise.  
"What?! Athos, I need your report!" he demanded, although he dreaded hearing the details of what had happened to his men.

"We were captured… d'Artagnan was shot in the fight. They cauterized the wound, bullet inside." His musketeer's voice became more distant. "Aramis… Aramis… gave himself… in exchange for them allowing him to properly tend the wound… they… burned his hands… before they allowed him to operate…. When they left us alone, we managed to escape." Athos closed his eyes, then glanced at the unconscious boy, who was lying close to him.

"You don't mean that Aramis…" Porthos did not finish his question, his eyes begging his brother to assure him he was wrong.

Athos mumbled something under his breath. Porthos drew Aramis closer to him, burying his face into his hair as he continued his litany of pleas.  
Athos sat near them, one hand on Aramis' arm, while the other stroked d'Artagnan's hair.

"Why did you leave the house?" asked the Captain. He saw that his question made Porthos pay a bit of attention to the conversation, although the dark skinned musketeer was still mostly focused on his fading brother.

"We followed d'Artagnan. We should have stopped him, but… we wanted to give him some freedom. We had no idea…" His voice trailed off, the guilt visibly burdening him.

"It's all my fault," whispered d'Artagnan.  
Athos did not answer.

"There was no way you could have known that bandits were so close," replied Tréville.  
"I… wanted to spare them… to leave…to not to be a burden… and… and… Aramis…." the boy choked on the words.  
"Hush… sleep, d'Artagnan," Athos said softly.

Tréville withdrew a few steps away in order to give his men some privacy. Louise joined him after checking on Aramis.  
"How is he?" he asked.  
"Bad. He should have already started to improve. He is still too cold for my liking, and his breathing is too shallow and too slow." She sighed, then her eyes searched the musketeer's face. "I am afraid that he is slipping away. I want to believe that your men will manage to save him, but… with every hour that passes without improvement in his condition, it becomes less and less likely that he will survive. I am sorry, Captain."

He acknowledged her words. So, he was probably witnessing the last hours of his best marksman. He was not sure how the remaining three would cope with their loss. Would they ever be able to carry on? Or would he lose all his best men?

He watched Porthos, who was still talking to Aramis, his voice full of despair and love. Athos left d'Artagnan's side, his focus now also solely on the Spaniard.

"Mis, don't do this to us! You have to fight! How can we convince d'Artagnan to live if you end up dying because of your efforts to save him? Aramis… your sacrifice was so selfless… but I have to ask you for more. Live, Aramis!" Athos' words seemed so loud. The swordsman choked on his brother's name, then leaned over and gently kissed his pale forehead. Tréville felt sick when he saw the still bluish tinge on Aramis' lips.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N**

 **Tissue warning. Please, remember I don't write deathfics.**

 **Riversidewren, thank you.**

Athos

 _"Aramis?! Mis?! No… NO!" Porthos' cry woke Athos up from a light slumber, and his eyes immediately searched for his brothers. He watched, horrified, as a sobbing Porthos rocked Aramis in his arms. Athos glanced at Louise, and she sadly shook her head. The swordsman closed his eyes in utter defeat._

 _They had lost Aramis. He would never hear his friend's voice again. He would never spar with his brother. He would never again be angry at Aramis for hovering him over like a mother hen when he was injured. There would be no more Aramis. The awareness of the loss was suffocating him._

 _Athos put his hand on Porthos' arm in a gesture of support._  
 _"I'll kill Allancourt! He's a dead man!" Porthos whispered. He looked so vulnerable and fragile. Abandoned. Abandoned by his closest friend._

 _D'Artagnan's whimper made the lieutenant glance at the Gascon. He felt anger building in his heart. If not for this stupid boy, their Spaniard would be alive. Aramis had been on the road to recovery. Athos knew it would have been a long road for their marksman, but he had begun to believe that it was possible...if not for the stupid idea of the night walk. If that idiot… No, it was not d'Artagnan's fault. He himself was the one guilty for Aramis' death. If he had stopped the Gascon at the door, nothing would have happened. But no, they had followed him straight into the ambush. And after he had begged for Aramis to untie him with his burned hands, he had left the medic in the river. He should have jumped in after his friend. If the marksman had spent less time in the cold water, they could have saved him…_

 _It was his fault. He had killed his brother. And there was no way he would be able to save d'Artagnan. Aramis' horrifying sacrifice had been wasted._

 _"May I…?", he asked Porthos, then gently extended his hand to touch Aramis' face. His skin was so cold. He looked exactly the same as when Tréville had brought him here. But there was no hope now. Athos remembered how Aramis' eyes had locked with his while the Spaniard was being abusedHe remembered how he had thought that Aramis' soul was dying in that moment. That was why he should not have hoped that Aramis would live. Still, this had not meant that he was ready to accept his brother's death._

 _Porthos allowed him to take Aramis' body in his arms. Athos felt as if his soul was shattering. He wanted to scream, but only a broken sob came from his throat._

 _He had killed someone whom he loved._  
 _Again._  
 _He would witness d'Artagnan going down the black spiral to suicide, and he would not be able to stop him._  
 _Even wine would not give him a reprieve this time._

"Athos?!"  
The voice was insistent, as if this was not the first time it had called his name.  
Porthos' voice.

"I am sorry… I am sorry… so sorry," he mumbled.

"What for?"  
"Aramis… it is my fault. I… I should have stopped him… I…left him…"  
"Hush… brother," replied Porthos softly. "You could not save him once he fell into the river. You had d'Artagnan to take care of, and he was severely wounded."

Athos lifted his head. He could not find the strength to glance at Porthos. He knew that he was still holding Aramis' body in his arms. He knew that it would be a challenge to persuade the dark skinned musketeer to bury their brother. He decided he should give Porthos some more time to bid their friend farewell.

He checked on d'Artagnan. The boy was conscious.  
"Mis…?" he asked softly.  
Athos did not answer. He could not tell him that they had lost their brother. As long as he did not say it out loud, perhaps it would not seem so real... so tangible.

"Is he…?!" d'Artagnan's whisper was like a scream.  
Athos nodded.  
The boy curled up in a ball, wincing when he felt the pain of his wound. Athos put his hand on the younger man's arm. He could not discern the words behind d'Artagnan's muffled sobs.

"Athos?" The dark skinned musketeer sounded confused.  
The swordsman shook his head, hoping that Porthos would understand and allow the boy to grieve in silence. He gently pulled d'Artagnan into a hug.

God, he needed wine.  
But he did not deserve the oblivion alcohol might give him.

He had to take care of the boy. After all, Aramis' last wish had been to save their Gascon. But how was he supposed to care for him?! How?!

 **A/N**

 **Dear Guest, as you copy/paste your comment from AO3, I'll do exactly the same with my reply.**

 **I won't agree is too late to fix musketeers. And what I wanted to say it is the aim I am slowly directing too. Sorry, if I am too tempted to put some nightmares along the way.**

 **! Some spoiler began !**

 **I guess that it is quite obvious for everyone that Aramis will survive. And there is a huge difference between the first time he was captured and this second one - first time he was a victim. He let them to convinced himself he was blinded. He let them to play on brotherhood he shared to d'Artagnan. This time he made a choice in order to save d'Artagnan. He acted exactly as in his nightmare, he acted exactly as he thought he should have. He knew what he was giving for his brother's life. He could never be sure he would be able to do it. Obviously it was horrible but still he managed to tend to d'Artagnan even with burned hands. And in the end they managed to escape. He was not rescued as a helpless victim.**

 **That is why he chose to fight another day. Not making the decision was the to die - he was tempted. He chose to live. He made a conscious choice.**

 **I guess he would never pass nowadays psychological test but Athos would failed them at the moment he came to garrison and I am quite sure that people fighting in various underground organizations during IIWW would not past it neither.**

 **As to d'Artagnan - the biggest problem is that he feels guilty and I am afraid he has some reason. Although as Athos will interpret the same events as the proof for his guilt... What is sure they have to focus more on the boy.**

 **Thank you for your comment. I'll try to be more precise in showing the direction of that story. And to give more comfort.**

 **/ A/N are not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine fault.**


	41. Chapter 41

Porthos

The candle gave off little light. Porthos had no idea what time it was, but it did not really matter. The only thing which was truly important was the tentative breath he felt on his skin.

His throat was raw and his voice hoarse when he took up his whispered litany of pleas. Sometimes it was so difficult not to sob. He was afraid. He knew that the only thing which kept him together was Aramis' breath. He doubted he would remain sane if his brother died.

He changed his position slightly. Athos lay curled up near d'Artagnan. Porthos was could not tell if his leader was asleep or not. He had already had to awaken him once from a nightmare, and Athos' face still was a little grey. Porthos wanted to have the strength to comfort him but… as long as Aramis' life was in danger, he felt that he could not divert his attention from the Spaniard. It was possibly childish but… much stronger than him. What if his brother stopped breathing when he diverted his eyes for too long from him?! He could not take the risk.

D'Artagnan whimpered something, too low for Porthos to catch his words. The dark skinned musketeer sighed. He did not really know what he felt towards the boy. Aramis was dying because of the Gascon's actions. No! Aramis was not dying!

Porthos deliberately rejected that thought. He closed his eyes, burying his face in Aramis' curls. Suddenly, he felt the Spaniard stir.

"Aramis?! Mis?!" he whispered.  
The Spaniard gripped his shirt and clung to him.  
"Mis?" he repeated.

The marksman lifted his head. His eyes, full of pain, met Porthos'. He was staring at him intensely, and Porthos felt as if his heart were shattering into little pieces. He gently touched Aramis face. The marksman lowered his gaze immediately, but his grip on Porthos' shirt did not diminish.

"Brother? I love you." Porthos could not hold back these words, but he could never have suspected the effect they had on Aramis. The Spaniard started to sob, his face buried in Porthos' chest.

"I've got you brother. You'll be fine." He felt hope fill his heart. His brother was going to live! His brother was still able to trust him! It made him feel both humble and happy. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks, but he did not care.

"Porthos?" There was so much anguish and confusion in Athos' voice. "Porthos… we have to bury him!" Athos whispered painfully.

"WHO?!" Porthos and Aramis asked in unison. Aramis snapped his head up, and Porthos could feel the panic building in his friend. But d'Artagnan seemed very much alive when he was startled awake by the noise, and lifted himself up slightly on his elbow.

But Athos… Athos was staring at their marksman, his eyes unfocused and face ashen.  
"Athos! He's wounded!" Aramis' voice was rough, and very close to a desperate scream.  
"Who do you want to bury?" asked Porthos, trying to sound calm, although his heart was racing.

"Aramis? I thought… I…" whispered their leader. The marksman extended his hand and grasped Athos' forearm, once more ignoring the pain and his bandages.

"I am here, Athos. I am alive. I am not going anywhere." Aramis started to soothe him, his voice gentle, though still very rough. He sounded strange. Porthos had the impression that there was much more behind his words, but he would ask about it later, because now he had time. He could do it in the future! The relief made him feel light-headed. Without thinking, he pulled Athos into a hug.

"d'Art!" whispered Aramis. Porthos was shocked by the mindfulness of his brother. If they wanted to keep their brotherhood intact, they could not exclude the Gascon from their embrace. Porthos was stunned that Aramis was still able to think about others in his condition. They stayed that way for a few seconds before Porthos noticed that it had become uncomfortable for their wounds. They separated a bit, but remained significantly closer together than before.

"Athos?" The medic's voice was weak. "Your wounds…?"  
"Madame Louise took care of them. Sleep, Mis," Athos said gently.  
"D'Art?" the medic needed to follow his roll-call list.  
"Madame Louise told us you saved him," Porthos soothed the Spaniard. "He will heal."

"Yes, Monsieur, you did very well with such a difficult task." Louise stood near the bed, smiling at them. Porthos had completely forgotten she was there. "Now, I want you, Monsieur Aramis, to drink my tea and rest." She gave Porthos a cup of steaming liquid. Its smell was bizarre.

Aramis sniffed it, and looked at Louise quizzically.  
"I am guessing that you would prefer not to catch a cold or pneumonia from your little swim. So drink the tea. I will prepare a new compress and some food. Are you still cold?" she asked, worry on her face.  
He nodded against Porthos' chest.

The dark skinned musketeer cautiously changed his position to hold the cup for Aramis.  
"Don't look at me that way! You should rest your hands. And you cannot deny me the pleasure of helping you drink some of this nasty tea," he teased. Maybe such an approach was a bad idea but, God, he had hope and he wanted to lighten the mood! He could not help but feel as if a heavy burden was off his shoulders. Aramis was alive, and Porthos vowed that he would recover.

Aramis drank the liquid greedily, then tried to go over to d'Artagnan. He winced when his body protested. Porthos helped him to move closer to their wounded brother. "D'Artagnan?" The Spaniard touched the boy's arm with his bandaged hand.  
The boy glanced at him.

"Mis…" he whispered, "I… forgive me…".  
"I'll forgive you… but we have to talk. Later…" Aramis was losing his fight to stay awake. "I'm h're f'r you, my brothers, nly, reason," he slurred.

"Thank you, brother," whispered Porthos. He helped the Spaniard lie down in a more comfortable position.

They musketeers remained silent. Porthos guessed that the others, like himself, were too emotionally drained to talk. Under his fingers, he felt the even and strong heartbeat of his brother, and he did not need anything more at that moment.

Well, perhaps he was wrong. When Louise came in with a tray of food, he suddenly felt very hungry. The meat smelled delicious. He stirred, and Aramis moaned. Porthos soothed his brother.

"Should we wake him?" he asked Louise.  
"Yes. I have some broth for him. In the morning, I will redress his hands and try to make the bandages more comfortable for him. D'Artagnan, I'll help you with the soup so Athos will eat his meal." She scowled at Athos, who did not seem hungry, but obeyed her order to eat.  
D'Artagnan took a few sips of broth before he protested.

Porthos felt his mouth watering when he extended his hand to wake the Spaniard.

"Wait." Louise smiled at him. "Eat first."  
She did not have to say it again. He ate with gusto. He was so hungry! When he finished his bowl, he started to wake Aramis. The Spaniard moaned softly, and only opened his eyes after some time had passed.

"Mis, I have some broth for you…"  
"No!" Aramis tried to hide his face in Porthos' arm.  
"You have to eat something…" There was worry in the dark skinned musketeer's voice.  
"Not broth...meat and bread… something solid. Please?"  
God! Aramis was begging him for food! Porthos swallowed, trying to hold back the tears as he glanced at Louise. She nodded, and soon returned with another tray of food.

The marksman ate a little, then dozed off. Porthos smiled fondly at him, and started to stroke his hair gently.

There was a knock on the door, and Tréville entered. He glanced at his best men.  
"Madame Louise told me the good news."  
"Yes, he woke up and was coherent!" said Porthos triumphantly, his arms wrapped around his brother.  
"That's good!" The Captain smiled, relief evident on his face. "Sleep well, all of you. That's an order." He then left to allow them to rest.

Porthos was suddenly aware how tired he was, and realized gratefully that there was no reason to fight the urge to sleep.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren**


	42. Chapter 42

D'Artagnan

He knew he was being watched. He could feel it even when his eyes were closed. And to be honest, it did not surprise him. He deserved it. He could not be trusted anymore. But it did not change the fact that he had no energy for conversation. All he wanted was not to exist. He dreamed of never having been born, as the idea of his death seemed to be too painful for… For whom? Who were these men to him? Who was he to them? He had once hoped they were his brothers. But he had betrayed them.

Couldn't he just sleep for the rest of his life? Aramis called it something – a coma? He recalled what the medic had said about this condition, and found the idea really alluring-providing it would be free of nightmares. However, the problem was that his body had already had enough sleep. D'Artagnan was quite sure he was still very weak, and he doubted he would be able to reach the stables on his own but… he was also sure his body was healing. Once more Aramis had saved him. But the price the Spaniard had paid for it was unforgivable.

D'Artagnan hated Aramis for his sacrifice. Each time he heard his comrade's painful moans, probably caused by nightmares, he hated him more. And adored him more. He was amazed by Porthos' patience with his tormented brother. He heard the big man's gentle voice soothing the medic time and time again. How he envied Aramis! He longed for the warmth of his former brothers' touch, but avoided it at all costs. He did not deserve it. He had betrayed them. Aramis' nightmares were his fault.

The Gascon still could feel the darkness of the grief he had experienced when he had thought that the marksman was dead. To be honest, he did not understand why Aramis had chosen to survive. If he the medic had just let go, he could have been free! God, d'Artagnan would not hesitate for a moment to choose death if he was in that position! And Louise had said that Aramis' life depended on his will to fight. The Spaniard was a man of faith, and d'Artagnan was sure that the medic did not fear death. So why had he returned to them? If he had died, d'Artagnan could have simply killed himself. He would not have had to worry about his former friends watching him. They would have been too busy grieving Aramis. They would not have even noticed they were missing their Gascon. Well, perhaps they would have been furious to have been deprived of the opportunity to punish him for their beloved brother's death. But that was the only reason they would miss his presence.

But Aramis lived (thank God), so d'Artagnan knew he could not stay among the musketeers. However, he also was sure that he would not be allowed to leave... and then quietly die. He so wanted his torment to end!

He also knew that the serious talk with his former friend was looming over him, and he desperately wanted to avoid it.

"Porthos, Athos, could you bring me something to eat? Something good?" begged Aramis. So, the Spaniard had not even bothered to find a convincing pretext to ask his friends to leave...and the speed with which they obeyed spoke volumes about their silent agreement. He heard the door close behind the two musketeers.

The Gascon knew he should thank Aramis for saving his life, even if he was actually angry at him for doing so.  
God! Why couldn't the Inseparables just forget about him?!

"And what would you do then?" Unfortunately, the voice belonged to Aramis, not to God. D'Artagnan cursed himself for muttering his question aloud.

"Aramis, just never do it again!" he growled.  
"Never listen to your whispers? Or never answer instead of the Almighty?"  
"DON'T SACRIFICE yourself for me! Have I made myself clear?!" This did not quite sound like a "thank you".

There was a moment of silence, and then d'Artagnan was manhandled into a sitting position by a very angry Spaniard. The boy glanced at Aramis' face, then lowered his eyes immediately. The medic was very pale, and had a dangerous glint in his eyes. The Gascon was not sure what his comrade might be capable of at that moment.

"Do you really think it was about you?!" asked Aramis, his voice low, but full of fury. The Gascon had seen the Spaniard like this a few times, but never with him. D'Artagnan decided to remain quiet.

"It was about me, not about you!" hissed the Spaniard, "I was a selfish bastard, because I couldn't bear the thought of my little brother dying in terrible agony! I needed to save you, you fool! I needed to take advantage of any chance to tend your wound properly. I DID IT FOR ME!"

"That's why you didn't kill me?" asked the boy bitterly. "Why couldn't you just accept my death? I would rather be dead!"  
"Sorry, little brother, but you have become close to my heart. I can't explain it. It just happened."

D'Artagnan could not think of an answer. But he knew what he should try to do – make Aramis hate him. So he allowed himself to ask the question that he had badly wanted to hear answered. "Why are you alive?"  
He knew it was a bad question, but he did not care. Part of him wanted the Spaniard to hit him and leave, but the other part desperately needed to hear his friend's answer. The Gascon needed help-and hated himself for it.

Aramis' voice trailed off, and d'Artagnan started to become very afraid that the musketeer would simply leave him alone. The boy felt so lonely, although his mind told him he deserved it. Porthos was solely focused on Aramis, and Athos… Athos was so distant, so disappointed with his protégé.  
His mind also told him that Athos was right to feel that way.

Aramis finally spoke. "Do you remember the other house? When we arrived there, Porthos was severely injured. I was not sure if he'd make it. We talked. And he asked me to promise that if he survived, I'd live. I promised him. So you see, I need you alive to keep my promise. And… I would never forgive myself hurting Porthos… but there… I was so close… to paradise. I could have chosen Isabelle and life with her. God… I wanted so much just to rest. But… Isabelle is the past. She became the past when she ran away from me…You, Porthos, and Athos are the present. You are my life now. I am aware that I am a burden right now, and I will be for some time." Aramis glanced at his bandaged hands. D'Artagnan realized that for some time, he had been staring at the Spaniard's face... fascinated by his words, and amazed by the fire in the marksman's speech.

"I have chosen to live… Every day, I have made a conscious choice not to fade away. I… I will try to live. I hope… one day… that I will be able to remember that there is joy in life. I owe it to my brothers. To all my brothers, I mean- including you."  
D'Artagnan was amazed by the Spaniard's inner strength. He suddenly needed to tell him the truth about the night he had left Louise's house.

"That night… I wanted to leave… to find death away from you… I never intended for you to follow me! I never wanted to… betray you!"

"You didn't betray us! You was no way you could have anticipated the ambush… D'Artagnan… don't you see that it is God's will that you live?"

Aramis gently touched d'Artagnan's face. Only then did the Gascon realize that he was crying.

"I beg you brother, live! You are strong...stronger than me...and you are not alone. We are not alone. Nothing that happened was your fault. You did not betray us… As long as we are together, we can triumph. United we stand… and we must go forward together! Give us that chance, d'Artagnan! I am not asking for anything more - just a fighting chance."

A warm hand, rough with bandages, cupped d'Artagnan's face. He could not avoid Aramis' gaze. The Spaniard's pleading eyes were full of pain and concern. He suddenly was aware that Aramis was shivering, but he was not sure why.

He wanted to get away. So why did he end up in Aramis' arms? Why was he sobbing, the heartache suddenly unbearable? Why did he so desperately need his friend's touch? Everything was so complicated. There were no simple answers, and he was so tired. He knew he would cry himself to sleep in Aramis' arms. And he did not care how weak it made him look. His… brothers ...were they still his brothers?.. deserved to know the truth about him.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren for everything.**


	43. Chapter 43

Aramis

D'Artagnan was sleeping on his lap. The boy's face was buried in the medic's shirt, which was now wet from tears. Perhaps there was hope that this outburst was the beginning of healing? The medic gently stroked the boy's hair. It was not his place to be here. Athos should have been by the side of their Gascon, especially because he could offer a forgiveness which was not tainted.

He heard a soft knock at the door, and murmured an invitation to enter. As he expected, Athos and Porthos came in with a tray of food. But they were not alone – the Captain was with them. Fortunately, Treville motioned for Aramis to stay where he was.

"I am leaving for Paris in two days. I cannot stay here any longer. I can leave Etienne and his men here until you are able to travel. I had planned to let you stay here to heal, but I am afraid it is not safe. I can't leave anyone else here for more than a week. I'd much prefer to have you at the garrison."

The garrison?!

How could they possibly heal there? Provided they can heal at all…

There were so many people there, so much noise.

However, if they decided to stay, were they ready to risk being captured once more? Especially knowing that the villagers would also be in danger?

Aramis knew the answer, and he did not like it at all. But then he thought about Athos, who clearly needed a good deal of wine to cope with the whole situation.

The tavern… the mere thought brought the marksman close to panic.

"We'll ride to Paris as soon as d'Artagnan is able to, sir", replied Aramis.

"Good! Enjoy your meal." The Captain left.

"Eat first. Then I'll trade places with Athos," said the Spaniard. He was not hungry. The idea of going back to Paris made him nauseous. But he had to face the city if he wanted to remain a musketeer. Perhaps it would be wiser to withdraw to a monastery? If he came across an understanding priest, he could obtain absolution for sleeping with men. But there would be no absolution for his night with Queen, as he could never confess his sin.

Aramis closed his eyes.

Would he be able to survive without his brothers? Without Porthos' presence? He doubted it. However, if he chose the life of a monk, his friends would be free of him, without being consumed by guilt.

"Mis? Your turn to eat." Porthos' gentle voice.

"We shouldn't wake him up," he protested.

"You have to eat! I don't want you to become so thin that I'm able to lift you with one hand like a cat! Have you and d'Artagnan started a competition to see which one of you will end up skinnier?"

"No… it's just that I am not hungry, and the boy needs sleep."

"Mis, I know you're afraid of Paris. And you're right."

Porthos smiled sadly when Aramis looked at him quizzically.

"Many people will be around you, not all of them so gentle…. It's quite possible that Athos and I will be sent on a mission, or that King will require your presence. You're right to be afraid, Mis."

"When you're physically healthy, I can ask Treville to send you with us-" interjected Athos. "If you want, that is."

"And to be healthy, you have to eat!" Porthos put the plate within the medic's reach. The meat had already been cut up.

Aramis was astonished, then grateful, when he realized that his brother had thought of everything . Since he could eat the meal only with cutlery held by the tips of his fingers, it would have been very painful for him to have had to cut the meat himself.

D'Artagnan stirred, then moaned softly. Aramis gently stroked his hair.

"Trade places with me, Athos," whispered the medic. "He needs you."

"He looks quite comfortable in your arms. It seems as if you have found a way to talk to him."

"It's far too late for that, Athos! He needs a confidant who is untainted. I can give him my compassion, but it's not enough. And… I do not even know if I am still able to give him my friendship… He needs you." Aramis closed his eyes to avoid his leader's gaze.

Athos untangled the restless boy from the Spaniard.

"Aramis…" His voice trailed off. Obviously, he did not know what to say.

"It's fine. Take care of d'Artagnan!" the marksman repeated. He ate some meat and bread, then curled up under a blanket.

He had told Athos the truth. He had nothing to offer d'Artagnan. He felt incredibly tired, and utterly useless. All the things he had said to the Gascon now sounded like platitudes, although he had truly believed in his words at the time.

He was a wreck. There was no hope for him. And yet there was the promise he had given to Porthos. But… did anyone pay attention to a whore's promises? He bit his hand, above the bandages, to muffle his cry.

God! He was lying to himself if he thought that he would be able to live with what he had done! He had played the whore, and had been paid with d'Artagnan's life. Deep in his heart, he knew that he would do it again if it was necessary to save one of his brothers. Strangely, it did seem that they still wanted to be his brothers.

He felt miserable and ill, although he was quite sure it was only a physical reaction to his emotional state. He was freezing. He knew well the coldness of the soul which could not be driven away by any type of warmth. It was quite similar to the chill caused by blood loss, but was more persistent, and more severe. He had lived with it for twelve months after Savoy, even on the hottest days of summer.

"Porthos?" Flea's voice was heard in the room. At the same instant, Aramis felt a blast of cold air, and realized that she must be standing with the door open.

"Everyone's asleep. We'll talk outside."

The door closed with barely a sound.

 _After what seemed like an instant, the door opened again. Anne entered and approached him. She had on a simple white dress, probably a night dress. She smiled at him, then gently cupped his face with her hands, and pulled him into a kiss. And then... everything shattered, and it was not Anne's sweet lips that he felt on his mouth. He tried to escape from the touch._

His eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright on the bed. Athos' hand was on his arm. The swordsman still had his arms full of their Gascon. Porthos was gone...so not much time had passed. Aramis tried to breathe, but his nightmare suddenly came back to him, and he had to rush outside to avoid becoming sick in front of Athos.

He emptied his stomach, but it did not ease his nausea.

They had taken away not only his dignity, but also his most precious memories. Nothing in him remained pure. They had dared to taint his love for Anne. There was nothing left. He hit the wall with his hand. Hard. It hurt, but did not give him any relief. He tried once more, and felt the pain increase.

Everything screamed in him to keep to himself, but he also felt that he would sell his soul to have Porthos with him. His friend was probably making love to Flea right now. The big man did deserve some reprieve from taking care of his wounded brother. It was good that Flea was here, although Aramis suddenly became aware that he had not seen her since the time he had regained consciousness. It was only now that he had realized it. So he had kept his brother away from his lover. He had not intended to do so.

He felt even worse when he thought about the physical aspect of love. Did this mean that he would have no chance of finding relief in a woman's arms? He knew the answer. He would not be able to bear being naked... being defenseless. Furthermore, he could not taint a woman. So he had lost any chance of using the route to relief that he had taken after Savoy.

He hit the unyielding wall one more time. He needed to act. But what could he do? He was too weak to walk, and he could not risk meeting Allancourt's men. His hands were still healing, and using any type of weapon was out of the question. Using in terms of training, obviously. He never bore well the lack of activity and now…

He needed a method of escaping. A really good one, if he were to stay with his brothers.

 **Riversidewren, thank you for everything (you know what I mean).**


	44. Chapter 44

Porthos

They were lying sprawled on his coat in the barn, hidden partially by the bales of straw.  
Flea's fingers ghosted over the scars on his chest.

"So, you've taken your Queen in a barn?" she teased.  
"My Queen?" he asked, his expression becoming a bit more serious.

"I am yours... however, I never will be yours the way you want me to be," she explained.

"If I ask you..."

"Don't ask. You won't like the answer. But no matter what, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I've missed you."  
"And you'll miss me again..."

"Not exactly... I like to be cared for-I like to be loved. Maybe I could sneak into the garrison from time to time... it would be safe for you...and I won't be seen."  
"If this is true, I need to talk with the Captain about the attention span of our guards. However, I think I just might be able to arrange it so you could visit. You don't want to see me in the Court?"  
"No. Too many people want revenge for Charon's death...I... never told them the truth..."  
"I see..."

"Porthos, please understand..." She didn't finish, as he claimed her mouth with a kiss.  
She answered willingly, allowing desire to fill their world.

"I will be honored to be your permanent lover," he whispered, after their breathing had finally evened out.

"That sounds good," she murmured. "So, I take you as my lover," she purred, and curled up against him.

Porthos sighed, and cradled her in his arms. He fell asleep breathing in her scent.

He did not know how long he slept, but when he awoke, he realized that Flea was watching him intently. He smiled at her.  
"I've heard you're returning in a week. I'll go with you. "  
"Thank you." He kissed her once more.

"Go and check on your brothers. Athos doesn't seem to be the best caregiver," she said dryly. "Oh, and one more thing - if you get me pregnant, you'll marry me."

"I will," he said without hesitation. "But is that a threat, or a promise?"  
She shrugged, "It's a fact."

He lazily started to search for his clothes, and she gave him a speculative look.  
He cast her a quizzical glance in return, but the only reply she gave him was a smile.

He sighed and left her.

The sight he saw when he came within view of Louise's house froze him in his tracks. Aramis was kneeling in the mud, and looked as if he had just gotten sick. Porthos wanted to run and comfort him, but he decided to choose another tactic. He only hoped he wouldn't hurt his brother.

"Mis?" He gently patted his arm. "Are you up for a ride? Our horses need some exercise."

The marksman seemed confused by his offer, but he agreed hastily, as if he was afraid that Porthos might change his mind.

"They are asleep. We shouldn't wake them, but we need to leave a message." Aramis obviously was talking about their friends in the house.

"Fine. I'll talk to the Captain. We'll meet in the stables. But wait to put on the saddle until I get there."

The dark skinned musketeer quickly found Treville, who was talking with Louise.

"Yes? Is something wrong?" The Captain seemed to fear Porthos' answer, so the big man smiled reassuringly.

"Everything is as fine as it can be in this situation. I just want to take Aramis for a ride. I think he needs something to do. I hope it won't hurt him." He glanced cautiously at Louise, and added, "He can ride without using his hands."

"Good. Be safe, and don't go too far," ordered Treville.

"If you go through those fields, you'll find a nice lake," said Louise, catching him as he was leaving. She gave him some salve and fresh bandages, and smiled knowingly.

He thanked her. The lake might be a good idea, although it was rather cold. However, Aramis liked to swim, even in freezing water. Once he had shown Porthos his favorite places on the shore of the Seine above Paris. Porthos did not share his friend's love for cold water.

There was a summer when they had spent every spare moment there, as Aramis was determined to teach Porthos how to swim. Actually, it had become a necessity after he had nearly drowned the big man by throwing him into a nice, warm lake. The medic had never suspected that his friend would sink under the water like a stone.

Porthos reached the stables, and found Aramis brushing Orage. His mare nuzzled him, obviously having missed his touch and attention. The medic leaned his head against her neck.

Porthos smiled warmly at him, and readied both horses. The incessant movement of the animals' ears spoke volumes about their impatience.

He had planned to help his friend mount, but when he turned, Aramis was already on horseback.

"Do you want me to take your reins?" asked Porthos.  
"No. Just ride in front." Aramis checked his weapon, then they set off.

The pale sun gave them some warmth. Porthos relaxed a little, and chose the road Louise had told him about. People were working in the fields, preparing them to lie fallow for the winter. The landscape was peaceful, but they were confronted by the sight of birds were picking worms from the freshly moved earth.

Porthos cast a quick glance at Aramis. Judging from the medic's reaction, the birds were not crows, although they were also quite big and dark.

Aramis urged his horse into a light canter, and for a while he was riding next to Porthos. He then moved to spur his mare into a gallop. There was a dangerous glint in the musketeer's eyes, and Porthos, or rather Nuage, accepted the challenge. As they raced towards the little lake, Porthos was astonished that Aramis was holding up so well in the saddle.

They reached the shore, and Aramis was able to pull his horse to a stop.

"That was good." A small smile tugged at his lips, and then he turned his attention to the water.  
"Would you mind?"  
"As long as I'm on the shore, no," replied Porthos hastily. "I'll stay here, and keep watch over the horses."

The dark skinned musketeer was not sure how he should react. In the past, it had been no problem for them to be naked in front of each other, but now... should he turn his eyes away from his friend? No! He decided to act as usual. It had worked after Savoy. So he started to scan the area, not omitting his brother, who slipped into the water. He did not spend much time there. When he reappeared on the shore, Porthos tossed him a towel. The Spaniard was shivering, and he got into his clothes quickly.

Porthos wrapped him in his cloak. Aramis froze suddenly, his hand squeezing Porthos' arm in a way which made him fear that the Spaniard's hands would be injured medic's breathing was rapid and shallow, and his was face ashen.

"Mis?! What's wrong?! Talk to me, Mis!" Porthos was terrified. Maybe it had been too soon for their ride. Maybe the Spaniard had sustained some internal injuries, which had been aggravated by their stupid race.

"Mis!"

The Spaniard leaned into Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer was the only thing which kept him on his feet.

"What hurts you?!"  
Maybe he should not waste any more time, but instead should take his brother in his arms and rush to the village. What if Aramis was bleeding out internally right now?!

"Mis!"

"Don't... don't panic. One of us panicking is quite enough." The medic panted, fighting to control his breathing.  
"What's wrong?!"  
"Nothing. Give me a moment."

Porthos was not sure if it was wise, but Aramis seemed to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," he said after a while.  
"You should be! You have just about given me a heart attack, and I'm sure I'll turn grey before the year ends. So I want to know what happened. You owe me that much, Mis."

"It's miserable... I'm miserable... I can't stand it! When we were riding, I felt really good, but now... I'm so shattered... I'm tired... I believed every word I told d'Artagnan, only to question everything I'd said a moment later... there are moments when I really believe that finally, I'll heal and then... then I feel so useless... who am I, Porthos?"

"You're my brother, Mis. You are a musketeer, the best man I ever met. Loyal, compassionate, courageous-a true man of honor. Although you do have some irritating quirks," he finished lightly.

"Do you think I can ever heal?"  
"Yes. I do. Mis, you have already started to feel better at times. These moments will occur more often and last longer. Now, please tell me what happened a few moments ago. I'll change the bandages on your hands when you're talking." Porthos gently steered his friend to a tree, and sat him against the trunk. He started to unwrap Aramis' hands, and inspected his burns. He found himself wishing he knew more about tending to wounds.

"It's healing," muttered the medic.  
Porthos put the salve on the still fragile, angry skin.

"So? I want to know why you want me to turn completely grey."

Aramis lowered his gaze, and bit his lip.  
"Your cloak... it smells of lovemaking."

Porthos was mortified. How could he have been so stupid?!

"Isn't it incredibly ironic that such a thing disturbs me, of all people?!"  
"Mis... I am so sorry..." - whispered Porthos, totally shaken. So it was his fault!

"Come on! It's not your fault." The medic put his hand on Porthos' arm.

"I'm better now. Luckily, there were no witnesses. I... suppose I must get used to it. However, I cannot imagine myself with a woman..."  
"Give yourself some time. You don't need to have a new lover every week. You know, a man can survive even a few months without the attentions of the fairer sex."

Aramis shook his head, and smiled mirthlessly.

Then he stood.  
"Can we go now?"  
Porthos nodded.  
"You look tired, Mis. Maybe you should ride with me."  
"Okay, but only after we race again. I want to feel the rush of speed one more time."

Porthos agreed, and they raced around the lake. The dark skinned musketeer thought about letting Aramis win, but in the end, he did not have to. The Spaniard cast him a look full of gratitude when Porthos caught up to him. Then he accepted the ride on Nuage.

"Sleep, Mis. I've got you," whispered the dark skinned musketeer fondly. He cradled the medic in his arms, being careful to hold him exactly in the right way to feel the rise and fall of his chest. He could not stop himself from doing so. The fear of losing Aramis was still vivid in his heart.

The marksman seemed to sleep peacefully despite his awkward position, so Porthos made a few circles around the lake and then around the village.  
When it starting to get dark, he gently woke Aramis.

"Mhm?" murmured the Spaniard.  
"I don't want give Athos a heart attack, so I think it would be best if you return to Louise's house on Orage, not limp in my arms."  
"You think about everything."  
He smiled warmly.

I will try to think about everything from now on, he vowed.

 **Riversidewren, thank you!**


	45. Chapter 45

Athos

He woke abruptly, his friend's name on his lips.  
Aramis?!

The marksman's cooling body was not in his arms.  
His brother's blood was not on hands.  
And Aramis was nowhere to be seen.

Athos suddenly needed to find his friend and check on him. He needed to reassure himself that the Spaniard was alive. But his movements woke d'Artagnan. The boy glanced at Athos, his eyes foggy with sleep.

Athos recalled his talk with the medic, and remembered the way Aramis had insisted on him speaking with d'Artagnan. He had said something about the elder man being untainted. And as he thought their conversation over, Athos was suddenly sure he had not disputed his friend's words. His silence had been like a confirmation of Aramis' fear.

Great! Just great!

Once again, he had harmed his hurting friend even more!

When would they realize that he was unworthy of their friendship?!

He needed a break that only wine- a lot of wine- could provide. He felt sick. Why his friends did trust him?! Why had Aramis trusted him with their Gascon?!

Because he was untainted. Because their captors had been given specific orders regarding his person. Because he was the one who had arrested the comte's sister... Because all of his brothers' torment was his fault.

Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, who was curled up against the wall, distancing himself from his mentor.

"We need to talk." Athos wished he knew what to say.

"Because Aramis told you to talk to me?" D'Artagnan was too intelligent for his own good.

"Yes and no," the lieutenant sighed. "You know that Allacourt's hatred towards us is all my doing… so…"

"Athos, if you're going to say that you were the cause of my torture, I'll hit you! I do not blame you for what happened! I do not want to die to punish you! Yes, I want to die, but not for that reason. I am just too weak to carry on. Do you understand?! Aramis told me that he sacrificed himself for me because he was selfish-because he wanted me to live. Even if that's true, it's time I do something for myself. So let me go!"

Athos felt as if his heart was shattering. He had not expected he would face the boy's despair in such an open way, and he was not at all ready to deal with it. His little brother had just admitted that he saw his future as hopeless.

What was he supposed to do?! How should he react?

"No, I won't let you die! You'll heal."

"Athos, we're not talking about a wound or an illness. You can't possibly know if I I will be able to heal. No one can! As for myself, I think it's impossible. I don't want to hurt you, or anyone else... I just… cannot be a musketeer anymore. I cannot exist on this earth anymore. I am deeply ashamed that I put you in danger… I… I just wanted to be sure that you wouldn't find my body."

The former comte somehow did not lose his composure, although he felt like dying himself.

"D'Artagnan… the process of healing takes time… When I came to the garrison, my aim was to die in a honorable way. I… did not want to accept Aramis' and Porthos' friendship. I just did not believe it possible. And even when I finally acknowledged it, I was not sure if I preferred to live or to die. Your arrival changed everything for me. I hope I can do the same for you."

"Athos, why did you want to die?" d'Artagnan asked softly. Athos felt that he had to be very careful with his answer.

"I allowed my wife to murder my younger brother... and then I had to kill her…", _and our child_ his mind whispered. But he could not be sure about that. The only person who knew the answer would never tell him the truth. Or rather, he would never believe her, even if she did.

"So you thought you were guilty, and didn't believe you deserved to live."

So he had made a mistake! But maybe it was not too late. Where was Aramis when he so desperately needed him?!

"Yes. I could not bear being alive."

"So you understand," whispered d'Artagnan, "You've felt what I feel."

"But did I die six years ago?"

 _It would have probably been better if I had_ , he thought.

"You're not alone, d'Artagnan. Even if you doubt yourself, you have the strength to overcome it. Give yourself time."

"And if I come to you after a month or two, or even after half a year, do you promise that you will respect my decision?"

"I can't do that. I can only beg you to give yourself-to give us-a chance."

"Athos… you know the pain you feel when Aramis is digging out a bullet from your flesh? There is a threshold beyond which there is nothing you are aware of... you remember nothing. Your only thought is to escape from the pain."

Athos nodded. He suddenly thought how unjust it was that this boy knew so much about the subject of pain. When he had been d'Artagnan's age, he had had no idea how badly a bullet buried in his body could hurt. He would never forget the day he had gotten his first gunshot wound. He had been sure he had gone straight to hell when Aramis had started operating on him. The cold darkness which finally came had been his true salvation. He had been incredibly disappointed when he had regained consciousness and realized he was still alive. Yes, he was definitely the worst person to talk to his protégé!

"That is what I am feeling now. Not in a physical way, obviously, but I cannot fight it anymore. Please forgive me."

"NO! If you kill yourself, I'll never forgive you! NEVER! You're afraid right now that you have let me down?! Well, I am here to tell you that if you commit suicide, I will curse your memory!"

D'Artagnan hid his face in the blanket, and remained silent. Athos could tell he was crying. He wanted to take the boy in his arms and comfort him, but decided against it. The young musketeer had to understand that suicide was not an option. If he could have traded places with the boy and gone back in time to change what had happened, Athos would done so. He would have gladly sacrificed himself to spare the Gascon. But… not only had Athos been unable to save the boy, but every bit of torment the Gascon had experienced had been his fault.

Tréville would head out tomorrow on his way to Paris, and Athos decided he would leave with him. It was really the best solution. He stood and left the house, hoping he would find something to dull his pain. But when he thought about it further, he did not deserve any relief. He was a failure. Deep in his heart, he felt that he might be able to save d'Artagnan, but he had no idea how. Another life would be lost because of his incompetence.

Athos, focused on his own thoughts, ran into Porthos and Aramis. The dark skinned musketeer caught him smoothly.

"Where are you going?"

The elder man pulled away from his brother's embrace.

"I need to leave," he said quickly. "I've decided that I am going to head for Paris tomorrow. I need to talk to the Captain."

"Why? To tell him what an idiot you are?"asked Aramis, "I suppose you had a talk with d'Artagnan."

"Yes. And I am the worst possible person to talk to him! He wants to die, and I have no idea how to stop him!"

"So, you went and left him alone?" asked Aramis slowly.

In a flash, Porthos was at the door. He opened it, then gave them a reassuring sign with his hand before disappearing inside.

"So, you want to leave him alone? You want to run away to Paris?"

"He doesn't need me. He'll have you."

"Athos… you understand nothing." Aramis voice was low and dangerously soft. The lieutenant definitely did not like that tone of voice. He always had the feeling that the Spaniard used it on them when he thought they were acting like idiots.

"D'Artagnan needs _you_. _Your_ acceptance. _Your_ presence. He treats you as his father-not me, not Porthos! When you were unconscious, we did our best to be there for him, but now… if you leave, you abandon him! Do you want to leave your little brother alone at a time when he desperately needs you? Even if he seems to reject you, you must realize such rejection is often a result of needing someone so badly that you are ashamed to admit it!"

"Aramis, I don't know HOW can I help him! Please, just take my place!"

There was something very dark in the medic's eyes-then the darkness transformed into sadness.

"You do not ask someone who is wounded to take care of another wounded person just because you think he's a more suitable choice than you are. Porthos can't keep our brotherhood together all by himself!" The medic's voice trailed off, and Athos realized just how tired his friend looked. The last few months seemed to have aged him by several years. Athos was suddenly aware how vulnerable his brother was, and how much he was asking of him.

"Athos… you know that Porthos is closer to me than he is to you or d'Artagnan, right? The same way you are closer to d'Artagnan than to the two of us. If Porthos told me he had decided to leave with the Captain, even though he had been given permission to stay with me… I would just curl up in the corner and stay there… waiting for him to come. Nobody expects you to be able to heal d'Artagnan's soul. But I do expect you do everything you can for him. And right now, that means staying by his side...offering him your friendship and brotherhood."

"It's not so easy, you…" Athos started to say something, but Aramis silenced him with a gesture of his hand.

"Sacrifice never is... because it means putting someone else first," he said softly. "Please, save him," whispered Aramis, his voice so low that Athos was not sure he was supposed to have heard it.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	46. Chapter 46

D'Artagnan

Athos' angry words lingered in the air. D'Artagnan curled up on the bed, his face hidden in the blanket. He was aware someone had come in. He heard Porthos' voice, but he did not make the effort to listen. There was nothing Porthos could say to him. He was startled by a warm hand on his arm. He tried to pull away, but then a pair of warm arms wrapped around him. He tried so hard to remain calm, but he could not. And when he started to cry, there was no way to stop the tears-no way to stop the pain which was tearing him apart.

He must have cried himself to sleep, because he remembered nothing more than warmth, and soothing words he did not understand. He felt numb. And he would have welcomed this feeling if he had had enough energy to do so. After all, it made everything easier. There was a thick layer of silence around him. He heard people speaking to him, but he did not even try to concentrate enough to understand the words. Sometimes only a simple order got through to him. Everything became a blur.

Someone coaxed him to eat, but that ended up a failure. Every time he tried to eat, the end result was not good. So they finally stopped. He was only given something to drink. If he tried to focus, maybe he would be able to identify the taste of the liquid. But he did not.

They told him to go outside. He saw his mare saddled. She whinnied in greeting, and nuzzled his face. He felt guilty for not taking proper care of her. But someone had done it for him - her flanks were clean, her mane combed. She would be soon someone else's horse.

Athos helped him to mount on the horse, then swung up behind him. He leaned into the warmth of his former mentor one last time... He knew this thought should hurt, but he did not feel anything. A small voice told him that was a bad sign. But he did not care. He felt too weak to care. Was he slowly dying of starvation? There had been days that he would have never chosen that way to die. But now he did not care.

He did not remember much from the journey. However, he was not surprised when he woke up in his own bed. He wanted to escape back to sleep once more, but when he hid his head under the blanket, a sound disturbed him.

A muffled sound.  
Like a sob.  
He turned his head to see what was making the sound, and froze.

Aramis was kneeling near his bed. His face was hidden in his hands, and he was sobbing.

Fear flooded through the boy. Where were Porthos and Athos?! If they were wounded, Aramis would surely be at their bedside. So?!  
Were they dead?!  
Or maybe they simply had rejected Aramis.  
He had known it would happen. He started to feel very sorry for his former brother. Aramis wanted so much to live, and was so dependent on his brothers.

"Mis," he whispered.  
His brother lifted his head. His eyes were puffy and red.  
"Mis, I am so sorry..."  
"For what?" The medic looked confused.  
D'Artagnan missed the numbness. He felt so weak and helpless.

"That they left you," he replied.  
"Who?"  
"Porthos and Athos," he said quickly, expecting that Aramis would lose the composure he had seemed to regain. But the medic remained calm.

"They are on guard duty in the Palace," he explained softly.

D'Artagnan sighed.  
"So why are you crying?" He felt that his energy was already leaving him, but he could not sleep when his brother was in such distress.

"You're dying," whispered Aramis, his face full of pain.

D'Artagnan did not understand. Was his approaching death a reason for tears?!  
He should be frightened or relieved, but he felt only sorrow in the face of Aramis' pain.

"What happened?" Had he been wounded?!  
"You fainted several times during our journey, so I immediately asked for a physician when we finally reached the garrison. He said that without proper sustenance you... do not have much time left..." The marksman stopped, and another tear trailed down his cheek.

"Mis... I am so sorry... I never wanted to hurt you." He touched the Spaniard's hand.

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment.  
"You hope that Athos will not be angry with you if you just fade away."  
"Yes," he replied simply.  
"D'Artagnan, he would not be angry..he would be devastated! It is just so hard to watch someone dying, especially when you know you can save him if given the chance."  
"I don't want to be saved."  
"I know."

Aramis shut his eyes, and D'Artagnan stared at the lines of pain on his friend's face. He could feel that the marksman needed to be comforted. But he also knew that just offering a platitude would not help. He gently stroked the Spaniard's unruly hair, and the way Aramis leaned into his touch broke his heart. He was not worthy of such trust.

"Before you came, I felt nothing. It was a relief. I am tired of hurting. I... hoped Athos would just let me go if I did not heal... but he wouldn't..."

"I am tempted to propose that we both cut our wrists... or something like that. Watching you fading away... watching Athos drinking... it's just too much for me."

"And the promise you gave to Porthos?"  
"Am I still a man of honor?"  
"Yes! Of course you are!"  
"And what about you?"  
D'Artagnan saw the trap too late.  
"I know what you want me to say, but even if I say it, I don't really believe it," he replied sadly. He was so tired. The simple task of keeping his eyes open had become a big challenge.

"Mis... I hate to be so weak... so useless. If I ask you to give me a pistol... will you kill yourself as well?"  
The medic nodded.

D'Artagnan wanted so badly to return to the numbing silence, and to just fade away. Being as weak as he was now was not a nice thing, but he could bear it. What he could not bear was his brother's despair.

"I'll try, Mis. But promise me that if after six months, I decide that I can't heal and kill myself... that you will not do the same."

The marksman looked into his eyes, then sadly smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes.

"Fine. I'll bring you some broth and a cup of brew...that should make it easier to keep down."

D'Artagnan seized Aramis' hand.  
"Don't tell anyone about our agreement," he pleaded.  
"I won't," promised the Spaniard.  
The Gascon leaned into him, and welcomed the embrace.

Why had he agreed?  
It would have been so easy just to die, wrapped in his friend's arms.

But then his former brothers would find them. Athos would be close to a frenzy. He would probably shake his lifeless body with brutal force. And Porthos would just hold Aramis' body in his arms, cursing d'Artagnan.

No... he just could not do that to them. He could not steal their brother from them.  
Brother?

"Aramis, are we still brothers?" he dared to ask.  
"Yes, we are, my little brother-forever," replied the Spaniard.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**

 **I am sorry for rare update and delayed reviews I write for your stories. The real life demands majority of my time.**

 **Thank you all for still being with me!**


	47. Chapter 47

Athos

They stood motionless, staring at the nearly empty hall. Their duty was to stand here and wait. They were not allowed to roam the corridors searching for an enemy. _They had to stand and wait_. And it was just too much at this point.

Porthos was still cursing under his breath. Athos knew that his friend was certain that his duty towards his ailing brothers was more important than indulging the whim of a capricious King. But he was a musketeer, so he was here... but his heart was with Aramis.

Fortunately, Aramis was not in any imminent danger. Athos had hated seeing the fear in the marksman's eyes after they had arrived at garrison. However, his friend had remained quite composed during the journey. Athos knew that it was the efforts of Porthos and Louise that had really helped the Spaniard. The big man had been adamant about taking Aramis for rides only if the weather was bearable. This gave their horses necessary exercise, but the main purpose was to allow the medic a chance to relax. When he was in the village, Louise made sure to keep him busy teaching her about wound care. When he wasn't spending time with Louise, Aramis worked with Flea on her marksmanship. Athos had been surprised when the Queen of the Court had suggested the lesson, but she had assured him that the lessons benefited her as well.

Perhaps it was too optimistic to say that Aramis had started to feel better. It was more appropriate to say that _there were moments he felt not quite so bad_. During their journey, he had seemed more like himself. His hands had finally healed to the point where he could use them almost normally. However, bandages still covered the tender skin.

Despite all their careful work, when they reached the garrison, Athos' reckless friend looked so frightened. He sought Porthos' presence as if it were a lifeline-but at the same time, he left them without a second thought in order to fetch a physician for d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan…

Athos had no idea how to help the Gascon. He had stayed by the young man's side the entire time they had been in Epi-sur-Esonne, but the boy was simply fading. He had definitely taken a turn for the worse, and ate barely anything. As a result, even though his wound was healing, d'Artagnan became weaker and weaker.

When Athos heard the doctor's verdict, the only thing he wanted to do was to seek the familiar comfort of a wine bottle. However, Porthos found him quickly, and coerced him into returning to garrison. After that, he had spent all his time at d'Artagnan's bedside-at least until the moment when the King had required their presence. He had demanded that all four of the musketeers appear, but Tréville had explained that neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan were fit for duty.

He should be with the boy, even if Aramis had assured him that d'Artagnan would not die within the few hours he was gone. Athos glared at Porthos, but the words never left his lips as the King and Queen appeared. The musketeers bowed.

"Tréville, I expect that your best men will be prepared to protect both me and the Queen during the hunt I have planned for the second week in December. I will be most disappointed if they do not attend."

The Captain bowed, and promised that he would do his best. Athos just felt sick. Aramis was in no condition to go on a hunt. It order to get him even close to being ready, they would have to take him on patrol right now just to get him used to crowds of strangers. And how could they possibly do that without leaving their dying little brother?!

"Does your best marksman have any broken bones in his hands or legs?" asked the King imperiously. Athos' heart sank.

"No, your majesty," replied the captain respectfully.

"Then I want to see him tomorrow. I want him to assess the quality of the weapon which I have recently acquired. The last time I went on a hunt, it was a complete catastrophe due to the poorly constructed musket I had. It was completely unacceptable."

The Captain only bowed as the King dismissed them. Porthos immediately rushed to Tréville.

"What the King is asking for is impossible, Captain!"

"Not here, Porthos!" came the firm reply.

They were almost outside when a voice stopped Athos in his tracks.

"Athos!" The Queen was standing in the corridor, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. The musketeer bowed, then approached her.

"I can see that your friends' health is of great concern to you. Could you please tell me what condition these musketeers are in?" She appeared composed, but the lieutenant was sure that her voice had wavered. Her eyes were pleading, and he knew that she was asking about Aramis.

"Your majesty, I am grateful for your concern. I will let the men in question know that you were so kind as to inquire about their health…"

"So they are conscious?"

"Aramis is, Your Majesty. D'Artagnan is too weak to be coherent."

"I heard that they were… severely injured."

"Your information is unfortunately correct, Your Majesty."

"D'Artagnan's life is still in danger?"

"It is, Your Majesty," he admitted reluctantly. Why was she asking about the Gascon?

"I will send my physician with you and… one of my ladies with some nourishing food. Do you think it would be a good idea to send Constance?"

"I think it might possibly help, but I am afraid that it would be a difficult experience for Madame Bonacieux."

Athos could feel her gaze on him as she came closer.

"I am afraid I cannot change my husband's mind. I can see your distress, Monsieur Athos, and I am so sorry. The only thing I can do is to offer some assistance so that your friends can regain their strength."

"Your Majesty, I am very grateful for your attention and care." He bowed, and kept his eyes to the ground until the rustle of her dress told him that she had left.

The two musketeers rushed back to the garrison, afraid of what they might find. They went straight to d'Artagnan's room. Athos opened the door, and found himself looking into the barrel of Aramis' pistol. The Spaniard lowered the weapon, mumbling an apology.

"How is he?" asked Athos.

"He actually managed to eat four spoons of broth. It… gives me some hope," murmured Aramis. The older musketeer noted that the medic's eyes were red with worry, but decided not to comment on it.

"How was the palace?" asked the marksman. Porthos told him everything, and did not try to hide the fact that he was upset.

"Calm down. I will go, and I will be fine...just as long as you are not too far from me," said the Spaniard softly.

Porthos started to reply, but someone knocked on the door. It was Constance, with a basket of food and a physician.

When they left d'Artagnan with the Queen's medic, she pressed the lieutenant immediately. "Athos! I want to know what is going on!"

"He was tortured. He could probably recover, but he doesn't seem to want to."

"What?! And you didn't send for me?!"

"Constance, I know that you're friends but…"

"Do you really think that I don't care for him, you idiot?!"

He murmured an apology as she shook her head, and stared at the door nervously. The medic finally came out.

"How is he?!" Constance asked him immediately.

"If he starts to eat, he will live."

"I will make sure of it!" she declared, her eyes full of both fear and fury.

Athos exchanged a quick glance with Porthos.

"If you are able to accomplish that, we shall be very grateful."

"Well, for a start, I propose that you eat some of the food that the Queen sent. It is delicious, and you all look thinner then the last time I saw you!"

Athos decided it would be easier- and safer-for them to obey her.

A/N

 **GingietheSnap** **–** **as I cannot do it otherwise – thank you for your reviews! And I do want to finish this story, so don't worry. I am sorry for the rare updates but I am afraid it won't improve soon.**

 **Riversidewren, thank you so much!**


	48. Chapter 48

Aramis

The sky was still dark when he aimed his musket and fired. He put the discharged weapon aside, and took up another one. His aim was still true. He sighed with relief. He would never have admitted that he was unsure of his marksmanship skills. He stood still for several minutes before he reached for the next weapon.

"Not too early for practice?" A voice startled him.

"No, sir," he replied cautiously, his eyes never leaving the weapon in his hand.

"Aramis… are you sure you're up to this?" asked Tréville.

The Spaniard smiled, but his eyes were devoid of mirth.

"Do you want to try to stop me, Captain? Because I intend to..." Aramis ' voice suddenly trailed off, and he felt panic surging within him.

"Should I turn in my pauldron…?" he asked. His lips were suddenly so dry. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest.

"Aramis, look at me!" It was an order, and he obeyed. The Captain was watching him intently, and the medic felt the urge to run away from the scrutiny of his eyes.

"You have given me no reason to strip you of your commission. So please, do not continue this ridiculous talk. I want to know how you feel.. Be honest with me, Aramis."

The marksman lowered his eyes.

"I am in as good a shape as I can be," he replied after a moment. "I won't fail you, Captain."

"I know you won't. I am only afraid that you are too skilled a marksman to be assessing that musket. In the hands of an amateur, it may be less useful."

"Should I purposely miss?"

"No, you shouldn't. How is d'Artagnan?"

"Constance doesn't leave his side. Her presence seems to help. Or… I want to believe it does. I'm sorry that… I am not able to heal him…" Aramis sighed in defeat.

He hoped with all his heart that Constance would be able to save his little brother.

He had stayed some time after the royal physician had left. Constance made sure that they had eaten the delicious food that the Queen had sent. She had even succeeded in coaxing d'Artagnan into eating... one bite of a honey cake. Aramis thought how dire the situation was... he was happy that his brother had managed to keep down three spoons of soup and a little piece of cake!

Concerning the soup... the marksman had been sure he would not be able to swallow even one spoonful... but he managed to eat other things, so he did not dwell on it. His only concern was that his brothers would finally catch on. It was certain that Athos would realize why he was avoiding liquids. To be honest, the mere thought of eating soup made him nauseous. He was terrified that every his reaction betrayed what had happened to him.

"Aramis?!" Porthos' panicked voice reached him from some distance away. He had slept in Porthos' room, but had sneaked out after awakening from a nightmare. The bad dreams were always waiting for him. He knew what herbs he could use to sleep, but he was afraid that they would trap him in a nightmare. He had lived through such an experience a few times due to a strong painkilling draught or a fever. And he had vowed to avoid a repeat of the experience.

"I'm over here," answered the marksman. He did not need his friend's presence at that very moment.

Porthos joined them. He greeted the Captain, then cast a glance at his brother.

"The hour is more appropriate for breakfast than for marksmanship," he said, his expression serious.

"Listen to your friend, Aramis. His words are wise." The Captain took his leave.

"It makes me worry when he says something like that," murmured Aramis.

"I agree," said Porthos. "If he is calling me wise, he must really be desperate."

"He said that your words are wise...not that you are wise!" teased the Spaniard.

Porthos huffed as if he had been offended, but the warm smile in his eyes was genuine.

They went to breakfast together. Actually, they took their meal and went to d'Artagnan's room to eat. Athos was keeping watch, and Constance was sleeping, curled up next to d'Artagnan.

"She will speak with you," Athos said to Aramis in way of a greeting.

"I plan to give her back the cross," replied the Spaniard sullenly.  
"How can you justify doing that?"  
"I can no longer be her champion."  
"Why?"  
"Why, you ask? The things I've done..."  
"Have you betrayed the crown? Well, yes, you have," Athos voice was a whisper. "But you do not regret it. You have done nothing wrong. You have not disobeyed an order."  
"Who wants a broken champion?"  
"Is that what you want to say to her? Aramis... That is a very bad idea. I suggest that you avoid her instead."

The Spaniard closed his eyes and bowed his head. Athos was right. He should avoid Anne. It would be the best solution, and she would not worry about him.

They left the garrison together, with Aramis walking between his brothers. He tried not to notice their anxious glances. The streets were quite busy, and all Aramis wanted to do was to hide somewhere. He felt so vulnerable and weak, regardless of Porthos' presence, which he was reminded of when the big man's hand accidentally landed on his arm.

Finally, they reached the Palace. Aramis was instructed to follow a page. He tried not to cast a panicked look at Porthos. Bracing himself, he went after the young boy, who conducted him to the middle of the snowy, muddy garden. Several muskets lay on a table. As the weather was not favorable enough for the King to venture outside, Louis was watching from a window in his quarters. The temperature was not terribly low, but the wind was heavy with freezing rain.

Aramis bowed to the King, and picked up the first weapon.  
"Sir, the King desires you to shoot the disc which I will throw up into the air," said the boy hesitantly. Aramis nodded, trying not to grit his teeth. This was not the best way to check the accuracy of a weapon, but he had no intention of arguing with the King.

"I'm ready." He relaxed, letting his mind calculate the necessary correction for the wind.  
The disc flew up into the air. He shot through it cleanly, and the pieces hit the ground.

He put back the musket on the table, then picked up the next one. Another shot, and another hit. The marksman smiled to himself. His aim was true, as always.

When he finished with that weapon, he was chilled to the bone. The page told him that the King desired his presence, as he was anxiously waiting for a report.

Aramis felt panic rear its ugly head once again when he entered the Palace by the terrace doors. He bowed deeply.

"I see that your injuries have not affected your aim," the King said, a smile on his face. Aramis was aware that Anne was sitting close by, but he fixed his gaze on one of the wall hangings.  
"So, which musket do you recommend for your King?"

 _None,_ thought Aramis, as he considered his answer. All of the muskets were of superior quality, but the marksman finally suggested the lightest of the weapon he had tested.

"I suppose you are quite fatigued, so I bid you go and rest. I want my best guards to be in top condition for the hunt!" the King declared, rubbing his hands in excitement. The Spaniard bowed and left. He chose to walk the corridors of the Palace, hoping to meet his brothers. However, they were nowhere to be seen.

Aramis left the building. Etienne was standing on guard at the main doors, and gave him a warm smile.

"Can you please let Porthos know that I'll be with d'Artagnan?" asked the marksman.  
Etienne nodded.

Aramis headed towards the garrison. Due to the inclement weather, the streets were relatively empty.

"Look, it's a Spanish whore!" He heard a hiss. A group of Red Guards was laughing at him.

They knew!

They knew everything that had happened.

He was lost.

He immediately launched an attack. He had not trained since before his capture, and he felt clumsy and sloppy. Somehow, he avoided the first blade. The second one, he parried with his own. The third, he managed to stop with his main gauche.

The Red Guards fought back, their jeering comments sharper than their weapons.

Aramis felt only bitterness when something hard connected with his face. He was losing the fight, but he decided not to flee. He only hoped that they either would leave him to die, or would just kill him. He could not stand the thought of being tortured again.

He attacked with much more strength that his weakened body really had. The fear and wrath that he felt provided the energy for his blows. He dimly realized that three of his opponents were lying in the street. The last two were circling him as if he were a wild animal. He felt as if he was a wounded predator, full of rage. He attacked with all fury he could muster. The closer of his enemies fell, while the other ran

Aramis was left standing in a pool of blood. His vision was foggy, and he felt lightheaded.

They knew.

They all knew.

Even if he killed them all, it would only be a matter of time before the whole city knew.

Anne would know.

He started to run. His mind was screaming at him to escape. He had to leave Paris. No! He couldn't! Allancourt's people were waiting for him! His leaving would only endanger his brothers. He should have died in that street. Why was he even fighting? Why was he avoiding the Red Guards' blades?! How stupid he was!

He did not think about where he was going. His mind was screaming at him, reinforcing his utter shame, while his body was choosing the direction he walked in. Suddenly, he was standing before the doors. He needed to get inside. The need to do so was numbing, but the door was locked.

It had finally happened.

They had rejected him.

He was unworthy of their friendship.

D'Artagnan was right. Their brotherhood was broken.

Aramis sank to his knees. He leaned his forehead on the door, and felt hot tears on his cheek. He was done. His breathe hitched in his throat.

There was no hope for him.

His lips repeated one name in silence.

An unspoken plea.

And unnanswered plea.

 **A/N**

 **As you see Brenwan I've followed your hint. Thank you!**

 **Riversidewren, thank you!**


	49. Chapter 49

Porthos

Time was passing by so slowly! Athos and Porthos had checked all the gardens on the Palace grounds. They both were quite chilled, and normally they would have been relieved to return to the building. But this time, all Porthos thought about was the end of their shift, counting the minutes until they could rush to the garrison and check on their brothers. Porthos had hoped that Aramis would wait for them at the Palace. However, Tréville told him that the marksman had left, as the King had showed great concern for his well-being, and had ordered him to rest. The good news was that their monarch was happy with the marksmanship show that Aramis had put on. Porthos hoped that his brother's mood was now better than it had been in the morning.

The Captain asked to confer with Athos, so Porthos stood at the large window, staring at the sad, empty gardens outside. The wind was even stronger that in the morning, and the waving, leafless branches reminded him of the hands of aggressive beggars. The rain hit the windows heavily.

"Porthos!" he heard his name, and reflexively bowed when he recognized the voice.

"In the kitchen, you will find a basket that has been prepared for the injured musketeers. I would be grateful if you could deliver it, as I expect it is quite heavy." There was a hint of a smile in the Queen's voice.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I will be happy to take it to them. I so appreciate your concern for my brothers." He bowed once more, feeling totally awkward.

 _Where was Athos when he needed him?!_

"Porthos." She came closer, and there was something in her voice which made him flinch.

"What happened to Aramis… and d'Artagnan?" she asked.

 _Athos, please save me…_

"They were injured…"

"Porthos… I might have believed that until today, but Aramis did not act as he usually does when he is weakened after an injury... and the letter which Constance sent to me… confirms that there is something more than wounds that is bothering them.

The dark skinned musketeer bowed again, desperately searching for a good answer. Aramis had told him about his romance with the Queen, and he could easily read the concern in her questions... but he was quite sure that Anne had no idea that he knew.

And what had Constance written in her letter? She had asked for some days off, that was certain. He thought about the basket waiting for him in the kitchen. It was quite probable that its contents were the reply to Madame Bonacieux's information.

"They were tortured, my lady," he whispered. "I beg you not to ask any more questions… I beg you for their sake, Your Majesty." He dropped to his knees, his eyes averted from Anne.

"Oh, Porthos!" Her voice wavered. "I won't ask anything else, but I do want you to promise me one thing."

"Yes, Your Majesty?" he asked, really afraid of what she might say.

"Please, if you have any idea how can I help them, don't hesitate to tell me. I'll do anything I can to help."

"Yes, my lady."

"Promise me!" she repeated adamantly.

"I promise, Your Majesty." He bowed his head even lower. Had he made a huge mistake?

"Thank you."

He heard the door open, and saw Athos bow graciously before the Queen.

"Please tell your friends that I will pray for their swift recovery," Anne said.

"Your concern will be a balm for their hearts, Your Majesty," Athos swiftly replied.

She left them with a sad smile.

"We're finally free," declared Athos. They headed for the garrison. The Queen had been right- the basket was quite heavy. The wonderful smell of roast beef and freshly baked cakes made Porthos' mouth water. He was sure that Athos felt the same, although his leader appeared as stoic as always.

They passed through the garrison gate, only to have Moreau, who was on guard duty, hail them.

"Aramis has been back for a few hours. He insisted he was fine, but I'm not sure he was being truthful. I asked Calbert to check on him, but he was not in his room, nor d'Artagnan's."

Porthos nodded his thanks, then stormed into the garrison.

"Are we under attack?!" A new recruit stood up nervously. Porthos was dimly aware that Athos had stopped to calm the young soldiers who had witnessed their entrance.

First, he checked d'Artagnan's room. Constance was the only visitor there, and she had not seen Aramis all day. They checked Aramis' room, then the stables, the cementary, the kitchen, and the armory. They were slowly running out of ideas of where to look.

Porthos even asked the guards if they were sure that Aramis had not left. They assured him that he must be still within the garrison walls, but Porthos knew that if Aramis wanted to sneak out, he would somehow manage to do so.

"Maybe he's in your room?" suggested Athos.

"I locked it-and his lock picking skills are not the best.."

"But you gave him a key, remember? You decided to do it after he broke down your door when you were bleeding out on your floor." Athos' dry words recalled the scene to his mind.

Porthos ran towards his room, then stopped suddenly, his heart in his throat. Aramis was curled up in a ball on his threshold, his bloody, tear stained face leaning against the door. He was obviously alive.

 _And that's the only reason I am not having an heart attack... but I will likely turn grey within the next few days._

,

"Aramis!", he skidded to a stop, and dropped on his knees next to his brother. The Spaniard flinched, but did not look at him. He was whispering something. Porthos finally was able to figure out that it was his name.

"Aramis! I am here. You are safe!" He gently lifted Aramis into a standing position, and motioned to Athos to take the key and open the doors. The medic swayed a bit, but to his brother's great relief, he was able to stand.

Porthos made him sit on his bed. Before he could even think, Athos had returned with water and mulled wine from the kitchen.

"Aramis, are you injured?" the dark skinned musketeer asked gently. He started to clean the blood off of Aramis' face.

"You appear to have a split lip and a nicely blackened eye. There is some blood on your clothes, but I don't think it's yours. Wait, there's a cut on the arm of your doublet. I need to check it. May I take your jacket off?"

Aramis did not protest, so Porthos was finally able to reach the shallow cut on his brother's arm. It was very superficial, and did not even require stitches.

"The Red Guard?" asked Porthos cautiously.

Aramis nodded, and his hands grabbed Porthos' shirt.

"They know!"

"About what?" Porthos mumbled, completely frozen. Did they know about the Queen and his friend?! No, that was not it. Aramis was neither dead nor in prison. Porthos reminded himself to breathe.

"That I was… raped."

"How?"

 _Shit! Allancourt must have made sure that the story made the rounds of the gossips. This is very, very bad…_

Aramis shook in his arms, and Porthos changed his position in order to hold him closer. Aramis' skin was cold, and his face was way too pale.

"What exactly did they say?"

Aramis did not reply, but merely hid his face in Porthos' arm.

"Aramis… they don't like you. They don't like us. When they said all those awful things about my parents… was there any truth in it? Have they said anything that makes you believe that they really know?"

Aramis remained silent, and still trembled.

"Aramis, look at me! This is important!" Porthos gently tried to pull back enough to look into his brother's eyes, but his friend resisted, and clung to him for dear life.

"Mis!" Porthos' heart was breaking. He cursed the stupid Red Guard who had damaged his beloved friend to this degree. _Beyond repair?!_ No, he could not accept it. NEVER!

"Don't… don't leave me!" the medic begged.

"Aramis! Enough! Do you trust me?"

"With my life!" came the reflexive answer.

"Good! Then listen to me. You are in shock. You have two choices-you can either drink some hot wine and sleep, or you can talk to me. Whatever choice you make, I'll be here for you. Right now, you are only making things worse." He tried to sound confident, but he was at a loss as to how to help his friend.

After a while, the medic lifted his head a little.

So?" Porthos asked.

"They called me a Spanish whore." Aramis' decision to talk surprised Porthos. "Then… they joked about me and my mare… and I don't remember much…"

"Okay... is that all?" Porthos asked calmly.

"Yes. They didn't have time to say much more, as they were quite busy defending themselves."

"How many men did you attack?"

"Five or six… I don't know how many of them I killed. One escaped unscathed."

"You could have been killed!" Porthos' hand gripped Aramis' arm. "I could have lost you… you're insane!" he huffed, then fondly stroked the medic's hair. "How many times have they called you a whore in the past? How many times have we beaten them in order to defend the honor that you have put at risk with your personal charm?!"

"What are you trying to say?"

"They saw that you were paler and thinner than usual, and they provoked you. They wanted to beat up a musketeer-a musketeer they hate because he can have any woman he wants."

"Are… are you sure?" stammered Aramis.

"Yes, I am. And now please explain why I found you on my doorstep."

"I… I think… I was searching for the safety of your presence. I did not realize that you were still at the Palace. I thought you had locked your door against me…that you had rejected me."

"Have I done anything to, make you think that I would do such a thing?"

"No… God, I am so miserable!" the marksman mumbled. He was definitely calming down, "I don't know why I got that idea…"

"Because your mind was playing tricks on you." Porthos finally relaxed when he saw the comprehension in Aramis' eyes.

"Now, I want you to eat something. The Queen sent some delicious food, and she asked about you. She is very concerned… She said she would pray for you and d'Artagnan. She made me promise that if I have any idea of how she can help you, I'll let her know… So if you have any ideas, please tell me."

Aramis lips curled up in a small smile when he thought of Anne, and his eyes slowly lost a little of their haunted look.

There was a knock at the door. Porthos glanced at Aramis. The Spaniard withdrew from his arms, and leaned against the wall.

Porthos opened the door to see Constance.

"Will you come eat with us in d'Artagnan's room?" she asked, her voice a little shy.

Porthos was not sure what to say. He suspected that Aramis would prefer to stay here.

"I don't know. I am a bit tired, and we have some hot wine here…" His voice trailed off. He could see both understanding and worry in Constance's eyes.

"We'll come. It would be impolite to refuse such a beautiful lady!" Aramis' words took him by surprise."Please give me a few minutes to make myself more presentable."

"Of course! We'll be waiting." She left.

Porthos turned to face Aramis. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, I am sure. I don't want to think about how… miserable and shameful I am. I'm sorry, Porthos. I try not to… but I am still falling apart."

Porthos did not know what to say. So he only hugged the Spaniard for a moment, then smiled at him.

"You'll recover. But I'll end up totally grey..and it won't be due to my age."

"I always told you that grey would suit you." Aramis gave him a watery smile.

"Well, you will get a chance to judge for yourself in a couple of weeks," huffed Porthos, gently ruffling his friends hair. Aramis leaned into his touch for a moment.

"Fine. We should hurry, before they eat everything."

Porthos thought about the delicious smells that had come from the basket.

"You're right. We definitely can't let that happen," he answered with a wolfish smile.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren!**


	50. Chapter 50

D'Artagnan

He was shocked when Constance entered the room. He was not really sure if he wanted to see her. She was the memory of his lost life, the life which never could be his. He tried to ignore her, but it became more and more difficult when he was left alone with her again. She coaxed him into eating. The food seemed to be tasteless, but he ate in the hope she would leave. He would never have thought he would want the love of his life to leave him, but it hurt so much to look at her. He did not deserve to see her. She should go back to the palace, where her place was- not waste her time with him. She had been right to not want to share her life with him.

Six months. Only six months, and then he would be free to die.

But how was he supposed to last that long?! How?!

"Why are you here?" he asked harshly, once more becoming aware of her presence.

"Your brothers asked me to stay with you," she replied.

"Shouldn't you be at the Palace?"

"The Queen granted me leave so I could take care of my injured friend."

"If I were actually injured, you'd be welcome to… but… that's not the case."

"Tell me what happened. They… said only that you were close to death."

"And did Aramis tell you that he has blackmailed me?" he spat angrily. "That it's his fault that I am still here?! That I can't even look at him because I see over and over again what they did to him? What he allowed to be done to him in order to save me, when all I wanted was to die?! I can't accept his sacrifice. I don't want to… I saw the light dying in his eyes. Do you know what it is like to see only darkness in your brother's eyes? He gave up everything – his honor, his dignity. Do you even know how cruel I am being to him?! All I want to do is to avoid him, because he is a vivid reminder of the moments I wish had been erased from my memory! He was there for me, Constance, even during the worst of it. He could barely talk, but he made the effort to speak... to anchor me. And… I… I can't look him in the eye… What kind of monster am I?!"

"You're not a monster." Constance gently touched his face. D'Artagnan leaned into her touch, although he knew it was wrong. He should pull away from her, not hide his face in her palm.

"D'Artagnan…" she sat on the bed next to him. He breathed in the scent of lavender and thyme. Her scent. "How did Aramis blackmail you?" she asked.

"He said he will kill himself if I commit suicide… why does he want me to live so badly? Why do they all want me to live?! Why are they so kind to me?! Although I know the truth. I know that Porthos won't ever forgive me for the pain I inflicted on Aramis…"

"Nonsense!" she said firmly. "Porthos is worried about you."

"He shouldn't waste his time. I am not worthy! I… they don't know… they haven't seen… they… have only drawn some conclusions from the bits and pieces they do know about. They don't know how afraid I was, how disgusting I was… I lost everything, Constance! I know I've lost them too… even if they don't see it yet. They will reject me. It is just a matter of time. I can see how upset Athos is with me. I can see...Why is he so disgusted with me when it wasn't me…" D' Artagnan started to tell his tale. Once he began, he could not stop. The pain and fear mixed the things he actually remembered with the scenes he had imagined, such as his terrible fear when Aramis was blinded. He lost track of reality. The hideous hallucinations and nightmares were becoming one with things which really had happened...things which had been confirmed by others or by the marks on his body.

His utter despair.

His doubts in the brotherhood, which was the last thing anchoring him to the life.

He suddenly realized he was in a tight embrace. An embrace which did not smell of wine and powder. The delicate fabric of a dress was under his cheek. Bewildered, he lifted his head to look into Constance's face, which was wet with tears.

"Oh, God… you were here! You… you heard everything!"

"I have listened to everything," Constance corrected him. She gently took his face in her hands. He stared at her. He knew he was supposed to react somehow. But he could only watch her blue eyes, so bright from tears. He looked to her as if a spell had been cast on him. She slowly closed the distance between them, then gently kissed his lips.

"Constance, why?" he whispered, amazed.

"Because I love you, idiot!"

"After everything I said?!"

"Yes! You're… you're still the man who taught me what it means to love someone. You're the best man I know, d'Artagnan."

He did not see pity in her eyes. She cherished him, and he did not really understood why. They had not been together that many months, and many harsh words had been said. They had hurt each other multiple times. And now, when she was free to walk away, she had chosen to be with him.

"Constance…" Once he had started to talk, he felt he could not stop. "I want them to reject me sooner rather than later. I dread that moment, " he whispered. "I try to avoid Athos... I pretend to be asleep because it hurts too much to see him upset with me..."  
"Why should he be upset with you?" she asked gently.

D'Artagnan wanted to answer her, but suddenly he was not sure if his words would make any sense.

Deep in his heart, he knew that Athos would not blame him for the things which had been done to him. However, his mentor might hate him for his failed escape attempt, which in the end had nearly killed Aramis. He was guilty of murdering his brother in the most atrocious way possible.

"What?!" Constance's shocked voice interrupted his thoughts. He realized to his horror that he was saying them out loud.

"It was my fault that we were caught again!"

"I think they have forgiven you for your stupid idea to sneak away and die. And as far as I know, Aramis is alive. So – you did not kill him, nor did you inadvertently cause his death."

"He died, Constance! The man I knew does not exist anymore!"

"Maybe… Or maybe not. Do not treat him like a lost cause. But we are not talking about Aramis, but about you. So why do you think such negative thoughts about Athos?"

"The way I'm acting now... it's disgusting. I am not strong enough to cope with the pain, the humiliation…" he trailed off, unable to find the words to express his thoughts.

"Athos is worried about you. He wants to help you recover. He is not judging you."

"I know..." And in that moment, he really did believe it. " But I am afraid he will reject me. I've always been afraid of it, and now… the fear is much worse."

She gently stroked his hair.

"He won't," she declared firmly.

Someone knocked on the door. Constance opened it, said a few words, then closed it and returned to her place next to him. She placed her head on his arm, and entwined her fingers into his. He felt completely drained, and closed his eyes.

"You should rest," she said quietly. "I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere," she promised, her voice soft. He lay down as a wave of fatigue hit him. Constance glanced at the chair near the bed, but must have decided against it. She lay down next to him, and he curled up against her body. It felt so… natural...so right. He slowly relaxed, and drifted off to sleep.

 **Thank you, Riversidewren.**


	51. Chapter 51

Athos

They sat in companionable silence. Athos was beginning to believe that their brotherhood stood a chance. His eyes were drawn to d'Artagnan, who was huddled against Constance. Her fingers fondly stroked the boy's hair. A small smile tugged at her lips. On the floor, Aramis was dozing off, leaning against Porthos. Porthos' eyes met Athos', and he just smiled at his friend. Athos could read the hope in his face, and he merely nodded at his brother.

The spell was broken when someone knocked at the door. Aramis was instantly on guard, aiming his gun at the door. D'Artagnan positioned himself in front of Constance in order to shield her.

"Come in!" called Athos. It was still early in the evening. It was not at all surprising that someone had come looking for them. He knew that his brothers were still on edge, waiting for an attack. And he found that he preferred Aramis' reaction over d'Artagnan's. The boy should have reached for a weapon, and had done nothing. There had been enough time for him to act.

Athos' musings were interrupted by the Captain's entrance. He immediately stood up, and was surprised to see Aramis already on his feet, lowering his gun.

"Relax," muttered Tréville. "Aramis, I heard you were attacked by six Red Guards. Needless to say, I am very disappointed that they attacked my ailing musketeer without any provocation. I must say I find it worrisome that the Red Guard is so inept that my man was able to defend himself, despite his less than optimal health. I hope that this compromising situation will be quickly forgotten."

"Yes, sir," replied Aramis, a hint of smile on his lips.

"Good." He looked at them for a moment longer. Athos began to worry. Something was definitely wrong.

"Sit down," said the Captain. "We need to talk." Athos offered him a chair, as well as a glass of the fine wine sent by the Queen. Tréville accepted the wine. He took a sip, and could not hide his surprise at how good it was.

"The Queen indulges you," he commented.

"We are merely her humble servants," replied Aramis.

The Captain cast a glance in his direction.

"I tried in vain to persuade the King that he would not need the four of you during the hunt. I am a bit mystified as to why he is so insistent on having you attend."

"What should we expect?" asked Porthos.

"That is not the correct question, Porthos. The correct question is what do _I_ expect. First of all, I expect you to conduct yourselves appropriately. Do not allow yourselves to be easily provoked."

Athos sighed with exasperation. Even if they had been at their best, that would present a significant challenge. D'Artagnan still acted with his heart. Aramis had the rare ability to escalate any misunderstanding into a violent discussion, especially if he was in a bad mood. The weather at that time of year was always poor. They would spend most of their time inside Fontainebleau Palace with a bored, irritable King and Red Guards spoiling for trouble.

Two weeks-or rather, 11 days-were left until the ceremonial beginning of the hunt, which would be the King's departure from the Louvre. That was not enough time for him and Porthos to regain their strength. However, Athos would prefer to be sent on a mission with his brothers, as he tended to believe more in Aramis' marksmanship than his mental stability. Today had seemed to prove his hunch.

Athos bitterly realized that he would trust Aramis with his life, but at that very moment he was not sure if he could say the same about d'Artagnan. He wanted to be wrong, but could not banish the image in his mind of the boy throwing himself at an opponent's sword.

Neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan were ready for any kind of emotional tension. They were still injured, mentally and physically.

Aramis spoke first. "Captain, I am afraid that d'Artagnan may not be able to ride. The boy is badly malnourished. That is not a condition which can be successfully treated in two weeks. And he definitely does not need any further injuries."

"Aramis… I am sorry to say this, but the King has put us in a situation where it would be better for d'Artagnan to faint during the hunt than to be absent from it."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked the medic.

"Yes. Prepare as much as you can. And… don't forget I that I think of you as my best soldiers." He finished his wine, and bid them good night.

A heavy silence hung in the room. Constance hugged her arms around her legs, and rested her chin on top of her knees. Athos felt her gaze on him.

"So, what do you usually do to get ready?" she asked briskly.

"We do not know…" Porthos started to speak, but she interrupted him. "This is not exactly the first time you have known nothing about your mission. You can't harden your hearts or heal your souls.."-Athos was sure he had seen her shiver when she glanced at Aramis-"But you can start to train. Not just with weapons, but also for… normal life. Go down to the tavern, play cards, drink. It will be easier for all of you to sleep after a busy day. You don't need to have time on your hands. It will just cause you to worry, and to think about the past-or the future. You musketeers are not good at thinking. So, focus on what you are best at-action!"

Porthos burst into laughter.

"You are wonderful, Constance!" he choked.

"I feel just like I do when you slap me," said Aramis cautiously.

"I am happy to actually slap you if it will make you feel better," she teased, giving him a gracious smile.

"Do you know if the Queen will participate in the hunt?"asked Athos.

"She will, at the King's request. I do not think Her Majesty is very happy that the King has asked to her attend. She has decided to leave the Dauphin in Paris. The child has a bit of a cold, and the doctor has advised against him traveling. It's nothing serious," she added quickly, as if she was aware of Aramis' anguish.

 _Maybe she is,_ thought Athos.

"So, what would you say if we planned some swordplay for the morning?" Athos glanced quizzically at Aramis. His friend's reactions had been quite difficult to predict lately.

"With pleasure." Aramis smiled. It was heartbreaking for Athos see the his brother's empty eyes paired with a contagious smile. Was this a first step towards recovery? Or was this as much as Aramis would ever recover?

"Athos? What's wrong?" The emptiness in his brother's eyes transformed into worry.

"I want you all to remember one thing. If Allancourt is there, we cannot kill him. That would be murder, and I don't want to see any of you to hang. Is that clear?!"

"You don't think he will be there?! You do..." whispered Porthos.

"We will bring him down, but I won't let him take us down with him," said Athos solemnly. He was aware that d'Artagnan had buried his face in Constance's hair. Porthos was fuming, and Aramis struggled to breathe evenly.

"Aramis, do you understand?" he asked. The medic nodded. His eyes were still too wide, and his face too pale-except for a dark red bruise slowly turning into a violet one.

"Porthos?"

"Yes…" hissed the dark skinned musketeer. Athos was sure that he had vowed to kill Allancourt.

"D'Artagnan?"

"I won't put anyone in danger," replied the boy.

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one you will get!" snapped the Gascon.

Athos realized that he would not achieve anything by pursuing the conversation further. He only hoped that he was wrong about Allancourt. He realized that the wisest thing he could do was to follow Constance's advice – to act.

 _We will survive this. We will be stronger after it- come what may,_ he vowed silently.

END

 **A/N**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing that story. I never planned it so long!**

 **Your reviews mean so much for me! Special thanks to my awesome Beta – Riversidewren.**

 **If I have disappointed you, I'm sorry. If not, I want you to know that I've started to work on the sequel to this story - the Hunt. So I hope you'll join me on it. I hope that I'll post the first chapter next week.**


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